This Land is Your Land
by AyLaMeow
Summary: A once optimistic and enthusiastic woman's world falls apart when she suddenly finds herself on the wrong side of popular sentiment. Meanwhile, a man attempts to reconcile his choices by cleaning up after the destructive bigotry of the new saviors of the Commonwealth. A struggle for self-acceptance and a battle with guilt take place while war looms over the wasteland.
1. Chapter 1

**Reuploading with some edits to numerous chapters! This story takes many liberties with the Fallout 4 plot and will contain spoilers, albeit with my own spin on things.**

 **Warning: This story contains profanity, violence, and depictions of drug use. There are also brief references to sexual assault, moments of extreme mental distress, and various other forms of sensitive subject matter. There won't be anything too graphic, but I recommend proceeding with caution if any of these things may negatively impact you.**

A loud knock at the door startled Juan from his concentration. He sighed at being pulled away from his work. Large stacks of documents, notes, and personally addressed letters covered every inch of his desk. There was a relentless shower of paperwork detailing crisis and calamity day after day. It seemed no matter how much he got done there was always something new to investigate, something to adjust to: raiders building coalitions to hold onto territory, trade lines being ambushed by super mutants, ghouls wandering into farming settlements, production stalling…

He furrowed his brow and rose from his chair. Grumbling, he made his way down the stairs, his thoughts still tangled in his work. It was around 7 P.M. He was seldom bothered this late. He was a frail, nearly bald man in his 50s with a thin mustache and large spectacles. Deep creases etched the sides of his mouth, almost mimicking the face of a ventriloquist's dummy. He shuffled through the hallway of his small Diamond City home towards the door. Looking through the peephole, he saw three people standing in his doorway, none of whom he recognized. He hesitated for a moment before opening the door just enough to poke his head out.

"Can I help you?" Juan asked, his voice thick with impatience.

One of the three, a pale woman with dirty red hair tied back into a ponytail stepped forward. "Good afternoon, Lieutenant General Benítez. I hope we're not disturbing you."

"Who are you? What do you want?" he practically barked, unimpressed by her formalities. He was not even close to reviewing all the work he needed to cover before meeting with the general.

"I'm Third Battalion Commander Emily Mahoney of the Minutemen Yao Guai Division," she flashed a small badge in the shape of a yao guai claw on the inside of her coat. "These are Officer's Winnfield and Vega," she gestured to the two people behind her, a clean shaven dark skinned man with a deep scar running three inches across his forehead just above his right eye, and a large, muscular woman with a permanent scowl. "We're sorry to drop in this late, sir, but the General asked us to visit you."

Juan opened the door the rest of the way and stepped outside, causing a rush of cold air to hit him. The breeze sent a shiver through his spine. The three Minutemen, all coatless, seemed unfazed by the weather.

"Yao Guai…" Juan muttered under his breath. The marketplace was eerily quiet. Looking around, he noticed it was unusually empty. Even the guards were gone. He looked back at the three Minutemen confused. "I'm sorry, did you say Yao Guai division? Why are you here?"

"May we come in, sir?" the redheaded woman asked.

"Well, yes," Juan shook his head, brushing his paranoia aside for his fellow Minutemen, "I suppose. Just wipe your feet on the mat."

Juan turned back inside, leaving the door open behind him. The three Minutemen followed, entering the small house in the corner of the Diamond City market. He could still feel the chill from the outside as he led them into a living area. The room, as the rest of the house, was rustic in design, with fine quality wooden cabinets and drawers, the furniture a shade darker than the varnished maple floorboards they rested upon. A comfortable looking tweed couch sat in the middle of the room in front of a smooth coffee table half covered in books Juan read in his off time. Across the table, facing the couch was a grey lounge chair, usually Juan's favorite spot to read or unwind after a long day of analyzing Minutemen reports and dossiers. To his surprise, the redheaded woman sat down in the armchair and the two officers stood to each side of her. Juan hesitated before sitting across from them on the couch. "What's all this about?" he asked. "Osha has never sent over Yao Guai for Minutemen business in the past. Is there some sort of emergency?"

"You could say that, sir," the redheaded woman responded. The officers to each side of her remained quiet and stone-faced like two well trained attack dogs. "You obviously know that any rabble about the Commonwealth being post-war is just that. New threats arise, requiring us to enact various new security measures with the climate in mind. Have you reviewed the General's provision regarding GLF and post-Institute forces?

"Of course—most of it anyway. I was actually going through this month's new procedures when you arrived. Sanctuary and Concord are obviously a low priority these days, so I understand why Osha wants resources directed to the Commons. A bolstered presence there may bring some stability to the region. There's a few coalitions that have been worrying Diamond City security, although the spread of super mutant populations through the area are keeping them occupied. We may have to contend with that threat eventually. We'd hate to meet the same fate as the Brotherhood in D.C."

"Yes, sir, those situations are being monitored. But you're aware of the investigations being carried out within settlements regarding internal connections to Institute remnants and GLF insurgents? Loyalties being as fluid as they are in the Commonwealth, internal threats are surely as important for security as external ones."

"I don't disagree. Osha and I spoke of this matter personally," Juan replied. Conversations like these often put him at ease. It was his element…but this felt different. He went on anyway, allowing his comfort with Confederation politics to supersede his feelings. "Synths being produced by remaining Institute scientists are a very real threat to the stability of the provisional authority."

"And the GLF?" the redhead asked.

"Of course. Synths are hardly our only concern."

The redheaded woman leaned forward in her chair and rested her hands on her legs. "And your position on the GLF, sir?" her eyes practically pierced his own, yet her demeanor was calm.

"My position?" Juan looked at her confused.

"Yes, your position on the GLF - the Ghoul Liberation Front."

"Yes, I'm familiar with who the GLF are," he responded, irritated. "What's going on here?"

"And _how_ familiar would you say you are with the GLF?" the redheaded woman ignored his annoyance.

"What is this?" Juan asked slowly. The commander's ambiguity was wearing on his patience.

The woman continued to ignore his questions. "You said you were reviewing this month's provisions regarding security protocols, correct? And where did you procure these documents?"

"It has always been my jurisdiction to oversee and advise the general on defensive protocols!" Juan snapped back, "I'm your superior, commander. I suggest you put a stop to this interrogation of yours and start answering me!" His voice grew louder as he spoke.

The three Minutemen remained where they were, unflinching.

"Where are these documents, sir?" the redheaded woman asked.

"They're upstairs on my desk. Now, this is the last time I'm going to ask," Juan sneered and glared angrily at the three soldiers, "What's going on here?"

"The general has simply asked us to visit you and ask you several questions. We are acting on _his_ authority now, lieutenant general."

"Is this about the council? If someone on the council has been compromised, then I need to speak to General Nathaniel immediately!" He rose from the couch but froze when the two officer's beside the commander took a step towards him.

"Winnfield, please go upstairs and gather the lieutenant general's work," the redhead instructed the man beside her, never taking her eyes off of Juan. The male officer left the room without a word.

"Fine then we'll see visit him together! Osha will want my consultation. If the council is compromised then we're dealing with a potential catastrophe. We can't leave anything behind that can potentially fall into the hands of the enemy. Have your officer's pack my documents. We'll bring them with us."

The redheaded woman didn't respond. She continued to stare at him, her expression blank.

The woman's lack of acknowledgment only made Juan more frantic. "We have to go _now_! Osha will want to hear from me. He needs me!" Juan turned his back and began a fast pace towards the door. "I'll bet it's Malchenko! I know he has—" a sudden pop caused his ears to ring and a sharp pain to shoot through his back. He stumbled forward, knocking over a nearby lamp as he threw his arms out to catch his fall. The lamp fell over with a crash. Juan caught himself against the wall. He was confused.

 _What just happened_? His mind reeled for answers.

Steadying himself, he managed to turn around. The female officer was aiming a small, silenced pistol at him.

 _POP POP POP_

Three shots to his chest sent Juan stumbling backwards onto the hallway floor. His right hand grasped at his chest as blood soaked through his shirt. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't hear. His ears were ringing and his vision was fuzzy. He gasped repeatedly and tried to crawl backwards out of the room and down the hallway. His heart pounded and his mind searched desperately for an escape. He knew he had to get out, get help.Blood trailed across the wall and down the hallway as he crawled towards the door. He looked back, dreading the sight of his attackers turning the corner after him. He was coughing up blood and struggling for air as the redheaded woman walked into view. Juan looked at her, paralyzed and helpless.

"He needs me," he gurgled with his hand to his chest, his own blood pooling around him.

 _POP POP POP POP POP_

She emptied the last of her magazine into him. The woman tucked away her pistol as the commander rose from her seat. The other officer returned from upstairs carrying a large brown box stuffed with various papers from Juan's study. The three left quietly, stepping over Juan's lifeless body on their way out.

 **Author's notes: The series is back in production and will feature regular updates. Be sure to fav/follow for new chapters. Also, please leave a review, especially if you have notes. I'm new to writing fiction so I make a lot of mistakes!**


	2. Chapter 2

Goodneighbor was one of the most human places in the Commonwealth—even though more than half the 'people' there were synths, ghouls, freaks, and junkies.

The streets were dirty, most people there were either high or drunk, and just about everyone in the city had some riches to rags story they wouldn't shut up about or a past they were trying to forget. Still, there was a collective understanding of what was there. Goodneighbor was the last major city in the Commonwealth where everyone was welcome.

The Third Rail embodied that idea better than anywhere else. The underground bar was the town's heart and soul. The signs shone a neon spotlight on the people's masochistic embracement of defeat. That same feeling hung in the air stronger than the smell of booze or the sounds of sad music ever could. The bar's patrons had an unofficial slogan: "We all bleed the same color."

Eveline Le Guin, a ghoulified woman, skin rotted away by radiation, cartilage of her nose and ears long gone, deep, dark brown, almost black eyes, and short black hair styled away from her face, sat drinking alone in a booth about 20 feet away from a bickering male ghoul and a young woman in a red trench coat.

"Piper, I've got an idea for your next article: 'Five Sex Techniques That Prove Ghouls are Better Lovers' Oh, or 'Is Your Man a Synth? What Penis Size Can tell us About the Institute's Secret Love Machines.' Whaddya, think?" the male ghoul laughed at his own joke, exposing his rotten, nearly toothless smile.

"Up yours, that's what I think," the woman replied with a snort.

"Alright, we'll put a pin in those. But really, when are we doing that profile piece?"

"Maybe when you do something more interesting than setting the record for the largest puddle of piss to wake up from a blackout in?"

The sudden sound of metal clanking diverted the ghoul woman's attention from the two at the bar. She looked towards the entrance. Thomas "Stu" Sturgeon, a medium-framed young man wearing a hoodie with the hood up and a baggy pair of olive cargo pants entered the Third Rail carrying a large overstuffed backpack rattling with junk. The bag clanked with each step, bouncing on his back. Most people were so absorbed in their own conversations or sulking that they didn't notice him enter. He removed his hood revealing a crew cut, brown, tired eyes, and a faint scar surrounding his neck in a perfect circle. He smiled brightly as he approached her. "Hey Evy, how ya been?" he asked, dropping his bag beside the booth and sliding in to sit opposite her.

"You don't have to keep doing this, Stu," she mumbled barely looking up at him.

"Eh, shut up with that," he responded, tucking the bag under the booth in case anyone decided to try snatching it.

"There's some decent salvage you can probably put up for a hundred caps or so. Maybe more. I've also got some of that pre-war food if you're not feeling picky," he reached over and grabbed her drink as he spoke and took a sip. "How you doing, Eveline?"

She didn't look up or respond. She didn't feel like talking about anything serious and he only called her Eveline when he wanted her to know he was being sincere. Otherwise it was 'Eve' or 'Evy.'

Stu picked the bag up from under the table and began digging through it, ignoring her silence and reverting back to his casual tone. "I also found some of that whiskey with the dog on it that you like. Oh, and before I forget, this is mine," he pulled out a book from the bag, and threw it onto the table with a soft thud.

Eve looked up and reached out to examine the book. It was soft covered and about three inches thick. "Associated Press Stylebook 2076?"

"Why you gotta grab the one thing I say is mine?" Stu said snatching the book from her hands.

Eve couldn't help but smirk. "So, what is it?"

"Some pre-war writing guide," he said thumbing through the pages, "apparently it's made just for reporters."

"I don't get it."

"If you're reporting the news you probably don't want to write like a novelist. I guess this is the style they used back then to report on plane crashes, or wars, or dog parades, or whatever."

"Did they have those?" Eve asked.

"Plane crashes and wars?

"No, dog parades."

"I don't know," he shrugged.

"So why do you have this, exactl—" Eve stopped mid-sentence and tilted her head slightly, giving him a knowing glance. Stu looked down and sucked in his lips trying to hide a sheepish grin.

"It's not going to work," she said shaking her head, her smirk growing into a reluctant smile.

"Oh, yeah?" he mused.

"What are you just going to hand it to her? That's weird, she barely knows you."

"She knows me enough!"

"Whatever, man," Eve snickered and took her drink back from him.

Stu looked over at the girl in the red trench coat just as she brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Maybe I need a drink first," he muttered quickly. He reaches back across the table but Eve slapped his hand away.

"Fuck you, get your own!"

"She's right next to the bartender! I'll have to say something to her. Just – here," he dug around in the bag and pulled out a bottle of whiskey with a Scottish terrier on the label. "This one is your favorite anyway."

Eve took the bottle and pushed her drink back across the table. "It's the one with the turkey on it, but thanks."

"Ah, shit, you're right. The dog one is _my_ favorite. My bad, let's trade again."

"Just drink and give her the fucking book," Eve snapped.

Stu tossed the rest of the drink back and placed the glass down. He turned his head, scrunched up his face, and squeezed his fingers into his palm, recoiling from the taste.

"So?" Eve smirked.

"Well, it doesn't just hit you! Give me a minute!"

She laughed and tore the seal from the mouth of the whiskey bottle, savoring the low pop of the cork as it opened.

"Really though, Evy, how are you doing?" Stu looked at her, his face suddenly serious again.

She groaned internally _. Ugh_. _Well, at least he didn't call me Eveline this time_.

"I'm fine," she lied to him. The past week was especially rough. She barely went out; just the thought of being around other people felt overwhelming. The only reason she was here was because it was Thursday night and there was a good chance Sturgeon, or 'Stu' as she always called him, would drop by looking for her. The Third Rail had become their de facto meeting spot over the past few months.

"I've been making a few friends around town," Eve continued, knowing Stu would pry if she just left things at 'fine', "Daisy—the woman at the general store when you first come into town—she's been trying to get me to join her book club or…something," she waved her hand dismissively.

"Oh, I've met her before, I think. Sweet woman. You should take her up on it. I'm sure she could…um, you know, give you advice or something…" Sturgeon shook his head and shrugged, trying to be light hearted about his suggestion. He never knew how to talk about her being a ghoul. She knew it was because he didn't want to make her feel bad by saying the wrong thing, but the truth was that it wasn't him she worried about. Stu hadn't treated her any differently since she changed. It was everyone else. The stares, the whispers, the disgust. Even if no one said it, she could _feel_ it. It was easier in Goodneighbor, but that feeling of being loathed and repulsive to others followed her everywhere.

"Maybe," she mumbled. She had no intention of getting any closer with Daisy. Or anyone for that matter.

There was a brief pause between them. "Alright," Stu suddenly said dropping his palms to the table and standing up from his seat, "Here we go!"

Eve took a swig from her bottle as her friend walked reluctantly towards the bar, awkwardly holding the book like a life preserver.

She watched from her booth, amused by his visible discomfort. Taking another swig from the bottle, she looked around the bar. It was half full with the usual crowd. Depressed drunks drinking to forget, a group of friends arguing about Commonwealth politics, and a young couple who would only stick around for an hour or two before running off to the Hotel Rexford to fool around. Every now and then Magnolia came out in one of her extravagant dresses and sang a tune, but tonight it was all quiet chattering and the clinking of bottles. The neon signs looked a little brighter than usual – in fact the whole place did. Eve couldn't help but feel a little better than she did when she came in.


	3. Chapter 3

Sturgeon was surprised how hard the liquor hit him when he stood up. The warm, fuzzy sensation from Eve's scotch was kicking in fast. His ears felt hot and his face was flushed. He walked towards the bar, the wise-cracking ghoul had wandered off somewhere, leaving the young woman alone.

"Hey, Pipe-bomb, how's it hanging?" Stu asked plopping down in the stool next to her.

"Not bad, Stur-fry," she replied without missing a beat. She twisted around and looked at him with that cheerful grin and those dark emerald eyes.

 _God, those eyes made him melt_.

Her light brown skin practically glowed. Her cheery, friendly face was framed perfectly by the slightly wavy dark hair that flowed down from her cap with that cute little 'Press' sticker on it, coming to a gentle rest atop her shoulders. Her small nose, her lips that made him weak when they curled up into a smile—this crush was getting debilitating. He'd only spoken with her a few times, always when he was visiting Eveline, and just about every time he ended up tongue tied.

"I-uh I got y-I was prospecting–scavenging…and I…"

 _Fucking English, man! Did you seriously not plan anything other than that stupid Pipe-bomb thing?_ Stu screamed at himself internally.

Piper stared at him confused, almost concerned. "You alright there?"

"I got you something!" he managed to blurt out. _Smooth as gravel, Sturgeon._

"What is it? She asked as he handed her the thick book from his increasingly shaky hands.

"AP style book. Pre-war reporters used to use it to edit their writing." _Coherent sentence. Nailed it._

"How did you–this is so…wow!" she awed, looking the book over. "Where did you even find this?"

"Poking through some bookshelves in a wrecked building by the CIT ruins." He was lying. He found the book in Jamaica Plains. But Jamaica Plains was enough southeast to be suspicious. That whole swath of the Commonwealth was Minutemen territory and growing - from the GNN building to the airport.

"Oh," Piper frowned. "It must have belonged to a student…"

"Yeah…" Stu replied. "Well, I saw it and thought you might appreciate it…do you like it?" He stared at her hopefully.

"I love it," she smiled. "Thanks, Sturgeon." She leaned forward from her stool and wrapped her arms around his neck in a big hug.

Stu's heart almost stopped. His body completely melted in her embrace. He didn't want this hug to end. He saw Eve sitting at her booth from over Piper's shoulder. She was silently cheering towards him, pumping her arm in his direction.

It ended too quickly. Piper let him go and turned back towards her drink, a distressed shadow was suddenly cast over her.

She let out a small sigh. "Even though I don't get to do much writing these days…" she trailed off.

Stu was still tingling from the hug, but sensed the pain in her voice. He gave her a concerned glance.

"You can still write…even without the press," he managed to squeak out.

Just mentioning her printing press filled him with guilt. Diamond City had torn it apart and shut down her newspaper, Publick Occurrences, when the new mayor got elected. It was no secret that the call was made by the Minutemen. The mayor was in their back pocket; not that anyone in the city cared. The Minutemen were adored in Diamond City after they put the last mayor, Mcdonough, on trial for being a synth. Publick Occurences was virtually the only voice in the Commonwealth criticizing the Minutemen for their zero-tolerance position on synths and ghouls. Apparently, Piper's good friend, a synth by the name of Nick Valentine, had to leave after the new mayor banned his kind from the city. Last she'd heard he was living in the ghettoes out in the glowing sea. Piper told Stu all about it the last time he was in Goodneighbor. Nick's exile put her on a tremendously short war path, publishing scathing editorials and condemnations of Minutemen policy. It didn't take long for the paper to be banned and the printer turned to scrap.

Seeing her so helpless, so disempowered by the loss of the one thing that gave her a voice, it made him hate himself. A phantom draped itself over his shoulders. It whispered into his ears how ashamed he should be, repeating itself until Sturgeon felt his heart sinking into his gut. She had no idea he was a Minuteman. He couldn't tell her. She'd _hate_ him. For months he'd done everything he could to remain stationed at the castle, avoiding patrols and active duty that involved running off ghouls and synths. The only person in town who knew about him was Evy of all people. She never judged him for staying, never once held it against him. Even after she became ghoulified, dishonorably discharged, and then exiled. In his mind, she had every reason to hate him, but she didn't, although sometimes he almost wanted her to. He had tried to leave when Evy was kicked out, but he just…couldn't.

"Sturgeon," Piper looked up at him. Her face was scrunched up in pain.

Seeing her like this was like being punched in the stomach. The phantom tightened its grip around his neck.

"Maybe you should keep this," he swore he heard her voice crack as she spoke. She handed the book back and turned away.

Stu took the book wordlessly. He wanted to curl up in a ball. This was _his_ fault. This beautiful, cheery spirit was crushed and it was because of _him_. He wished he could just apologize to her over and over again. He struggled to find the words, but couldn't. He took the book from her hands and walked back to Eve's booth without a word.

Hope sinks like a rock in the Third Rail.


	4. Chapter 4

Pre-war tobacco was staler than dried dog shit and tasted just as bad, but after you've been grazed by a few bullets from a raider's assault rifle, or nearly eaten by a mutated animal with jaws twice the size of your head, you learn to stop being picky about what calms the nerves. Eve and Stu were chain smoking scavved cigarettes outside the Third Rail. The air was cold and the wind only made it harsher, but the two were drunk enough that they didn't care. Some squatters were set up in a makeshift camp half way down the block from them, cooking up what smelled like mongrel meat. Other people were huddled around trashcan fires or sleeping on nearby benches.

"Fucking Goodneighbor," Stu said. There was no animosity in his voice, just an aimless drunken enthusiasm.

"Fucking Goodneighbor," Eve repeated.

It was difficult to tell whether they were bonding over a shared unspoken sentiment or if the liquor just had them bullshitting on the same frequency.

"Maybe they ought to change the sign," he laughed. "Bet there'd be some interesting pre-war scavenge in a place where you'd find a neon sign that said 'Fucking'. Maybe a place like that's already been picked clean. Just think, somewhere out there is a raider who's got a vibrator for a rifle grip. Human ingenuity!"

Eve snickered. She took another drink from her bottle and followed it up with a drag from her cigarette.

"Why don't you ever stay here, Evy? Stu asked her. "It's got to be safer than wandering around the Commons."

"Too crowded," she mumbled, "Most of the rooms are booked up indoors, and the squats are too packed out here. Once you get a sense of the place, the Commons isn't so dangerous. It's worth a roof over your head…even if it's crumbling."

The wind had nearly put out Stu's cigarette, so he puffed on it to light the end up again. "Just stay safe out there. I hate to imagine you going toe to toe with a super mutant with only a pipe pistol," he said. "You ever need a better piece, let me know. I'll snag something for you."

"I've made it this long alright. Worry about yourself out there."

They stood quietly for a while. The all too familiar sound of gun fire rang off in the distance every now and then.

Stu winced. He stared ahead blankly.

Eve slunk down to the floor and hung her head.

Another strong breeze ran through Goodneighbor.

After a few minutes of silence, Eve put her cigarette out on the floor. She rose to her feet and looked at Stu. "Stay with me tonight. You don't have to be back at the castle until Sunday, right?"

"Yeah," Stu replied, still staring into space.

"It's about ten to fifteen minutes from here. We'll get some oil from Daisy at the general store so I can get a fire going when we're there."

Stu finally seemed to come out of his trance. He looked at Eve and nodded wordlessly. His eyes were hurt, but she knew better than to ask. This wasn't for her to bring up.

Just as Eve grabbed the bag of salvage and prepared to leave, an eyebot turned the corner. It floated past them, its spherical metal body bobbing up and down as it flew. Its short metal antennas were picking up a radio broadcast and projecting the audio through the serrated metal speakers on its front.

"…an announcement after city security reported finding him dead in his home from gunshot wounds. The general gave a statement claiming investigators had yet to rule out the Institute or radical ghoul insurgents for the attack which he says…."

"Ay, someone shut that thing up!" someone yelled from the squatter camp.

A bottle flew through the air, missing the eyebot by a few inches and crashing into pieces on the pavement. The machine turned another corner, leaving just as quickly as it came.

Eve stalled for a moment, looking in the direction of the eyebot, but her drunken brain quickly lost interest. She threw her bag over her shoulder, the eyebot already out of her mind.

"Let's go."


	5. Chapter 5

Eveline woke up feeling like someone was pounding a drum inside her skull. Her mouth was dry and she could still taste alcohol in the back of her throat. She pulled herself out of her 'bed,' an ugly yellow sleeping bag with various stitched together cloth for sheets and a straw pillow. She pulled on a sweater from a pile of clothes in a corner of the room. The fire had died last night and she woke up practically shaking.

Eve kicked various bits of junk out of the way as she looked for the oil can. She and Stu stayed up for a few more hours drinking after they got back to her home, a collapsed pre-war apartment in the middle of the Boston Commons. Her home was in the heart of the columns of behemoth skeletons that made up the post-war city; secluded enough from the gunfights and bloodshed that she felt comfortable sleeping there and concealed enough that it was unlikely anyone would wander in. The ceiling was caved in in several places, and entire sections of the floor were missing, but there was more than enough space for her to live with relative comfort.

She found the oil can in the heap of pots, pans, and rubble that someone once called their kitchen. She went back to the metal drum and got the fire going again.

Stu stirred across the room, his body sprawled out on the floor, and his coat under his head for a pillow. He'd fallen asleep before her. The night before they reminisced over war stories and their time touring near Zimonja. They were both new recruits when they'd met. She was fresh from the great green walls of Diamond City and for the first time in her life away from the sheltering protection they offered. She joined around one year after the resurgence. By then the Minutemen were everywhere. When she saw them, marching in their uniforms, there was something indescribable—they had something, they were in a world that other people couldn't touch. And she loved them for it. Come her 18th birthday she enlisted and shipped off to Sanctuary for training. It was an emotional time for her. Her friends wrote her heartfelt letters, her parents wept, she and her boyfriend made love for the last time. It was rough, but it felt nice to be in the spotlight for once.

Eve lit a cigarette and wrapped herself up in her sheets as she scooted closer to the fire. She took a long drag and watched the flames dance inside the metal barrel. She grabbed some water from her bag and rinsed the taste of alcohol from her mouth before downing the rest of the bottle. Her body was starting to warm up again. She saw Stu sleeping on the floor and briefly considered waking him so he could take the bed, but decided against it. Unwrapping herself, she threw the sheet over him. He mumbled something and pulled it over his head before falling back asleep.

He was the only thing from her old life that she still had. Zimonja was a small outpost and only a few other Minutemen were there. Most of the others stationed with her weren't her crowd. They were tough, straight faced military types. Sturgeon, on the other hand, was usually making jokes or goofing around. She didn't pay much attention to him at first, until one day when another recruit got in a fight with him after Stu had stolen his rifle and hat. Apparently, Stu was on guard duty that night and he decided to build a snowman by the guard post to do his job for him while he took a nap. The snowman had the other soldier's militia hat on top of its head, a cigarette in its mouth, and the stolen rifle cradled neatly in its arms. Eve should have been mad at him for slacking off when he was supposed to be looking out, but she couldn't help but admire the amount of time and effort that went into making something so stupid. When the other soldier chewed him out and asked him why he didn't just use his own rifle, Stu looked at him shocked and responded "That would be incredibly irresponsible!"

Eve had to tear the other Minuteman off of him.

They hung out a lot after that. They'd joke back and forth or they'd have long heart to heart conversations. It was rare finding someone that actually listened in the Commonwealth, and she appreciated having a friend to talk to. She was slow to open up to people, so it was nice to find someone who stuck around long enough to get to see the real her. He didn't have any family that she knew of and he rarely talked about his past, so she always figured he was just as grateful to have someone around as she was. All she knew was that he was from outside the Commonwealth. Sometimes he'd reference tribes and governments she'd never heard of, but if she ever pushed him, he'd brush her off. But good company is good company, and there were moments they experienced as Minutemen that she probably wouldn't have made it through had he not been there.

Maybe she wouldn't have made it through being ghoulified. The memory was vivid as ever. A few blasts from a gamma gun rippled through the air from a collapsed pre-war home. The chaos, the sudden burst of light, the strange sound like an underwater explosion, and her body being hurled back by a series of glowing green rings. Thinking about it still made her wince. She remembered how the whole world spun, her body shook non-stop, vomiting constantly as her squad carried her to camp. It was almost an hour before they got her back and dosed her with rad-away, but by the time they arrived, she was already changing. The skin was practically sliding off of her body. Nothing in her life had ever been so scary. Watching the flesh melt off of her, her screaming _no no no_ to herself while she watched her body rot away. It was difficult to remember if she had said the words or thought them. The world seemed to fade in and out. She was screaming the whole way back, all the while Stu was next to her promising her she'd be alright, looking like he was on the verge of tears. Back at camp she cried all night. He stayed with her the whole time, not speaking, just staying with her while she wept in pain, in mourning. Suicide repeatedly presented itself as the only option. If he weren't there, maybe she'd have done it. At the time, it seemed like the only thing that made sense. Sometimes it still did. She didn't know if they'd let her back home. If they did, would her friends want to be seen with her? Would her boyfriend find her repulsive? Would her parents be horrified at the sight of her? She couldn't go back. So she never did.

A stirring from the corner of the room broke Eve from her thoughts. Stu got up from the floor with a yawn and tossed her sheet back onto her bed. Eve threw him the pack of cigarettes and he quickly popped one out and lit it.

Wiping the crust from his eyes, he choked out in a phlegmy voice, "What's on the agenda today, Evy?"

Eve flicked her cigarette into the flaming barrel. "I was thinking we could cover up some of the holes around here where all the cold air is getting in, and maybe we try to insulate some of these walls…but winters almost over. It might not be worth it. I can probably just scrounge up some blankets for now."

"I already got some. In the bag." Stu spit through one of the large holes in the wall.

"If you had blankets, why didn't you grab some last night? It would've been better than just sleeping on the floor like that."

"Too drunk. I didn't want to sift through all the stuff. Just thinking about it made me anxious."

Eve scoffed and grabbed the bag from the floor, looking through it for the first time. She poured the contents out in front of her. There was some junk she could sell: aluminum, screws, gears, some circuitry and other miscellaneous tech junk. Other than that there were a few boxes of .38, a cryo grenade, some pre-war food with various plates and utensils, four bottles of water, three stimpacks along with an assortment of medical supplies, a few small bags full of caps, two pre-war books, two jet canisters, and on the bottom of the bag were two neatly folded bed sheets in decent condition. She threw the sheets on the bed and packed away all the food, water, junk, ammo, and stims.

"Where'd you get the jet?" she asked as she stored everything. She separated Sturgeons own supplies, mostly clothes, spare magazines, and bits of armor, to repack when she was finished sorting.

"Cleaned out some raiders setting up shop near the castle. They're untouched, but wipe them down anyway. Don't chance it. Those raider camps are fucking gross."

Tossing her cigarette Eve cleaned off the jet inhalers and packed them away for later. She picked up the books and looked them over.

"Metamorphosis," she read aloud.

"And Animal Farm," Stu said through a lung-full of smoke. "Haven't read them but I hear they're good," he exhaled. "Mind if I take one of the waters?"

Eve shrugged and shook her head, tossing the books onto her bed.

"So, I was hoping you could help me with something–if you're not too busy," Stu said grabbing a water bottle and unscrewing it.

"What's up?"

"I wanted to head to the CIT building, just over the bridge, and I could always use someone watching my back. As shit of a shot as you may be," he said straight faced while taking a sip from the bottle.

Eve smirked. They always ridiculed each other's marksmanship. She once caught a super mutant in the head at nearly two hundred yards and Stu insisted it was just luck. He swore the shot bounced off the wall behind it and caught it on the ricochet.

"Looking for anything in particular?" she asked.

"Kind of. I'm not really sure. You don't have to come if you don't want, I just thought I'd ask."

"Give me a second to put some gear on. We'll eat some of this 200 year old shit you brought me and head out."

Stu laughed and put out his cigarette. Eveline threw his things back in the pack and tossed it to him. They each went through their supplies, packing on gear, doing their minimums for hygiene, and eating before heading into the wastes.

Both of them jumped as what sounded like a burst of energy exploding through metal, jerked them from their routines and sent them falling to the floor for cover. Eve cursed and covered her head with her hands.

"Put out the fire!" Sturgeon said in a harsh whisper as he crawled on his belly across the junk cluttered floor and peered out to the street through the cracks in the wall.

Eve quickly threw a cover on the fire to suffocate it. She crouched down and anxiously looked towards Stu. He looked back at her, eyes wide. She didn't need any confirmation. That was the sound of a laser musket. It was the Minutemen.


	6. Chapter 6

Eve peeked through the wall and saw them. Six of them, all with button-up shirts and beige jackets, jeans tucked into combat boots, tricorn hats, and laser muskets – a standard patrol of grunts. Eve cursed. They were only about 20 feet away, it was a miracle none of them heard anything. She reached for her pipe pistol and checked the magazine. _Loaded_. She weighed it in her hand. _Probably 8 shots._

Stu looked at her, his eyes darting from her pistol to her face. He frowned and peered back out at the street. Eve followed suit. One of the Minutemen was winding up her laser musket.

"Quit, wastin' ammo!" one of the others yelled. "And don't bring us any unwanted attention! I don't want something eating my limbs while I'm out here!"

"I think someone just got a little trigger happy," Stu whispered.

Eve stood still, watching the group carefully, her hand maintaining a tight grasp on the makeshift grip of her pistol. Her palms were sweating – her _whole body_ was sweating. She felt blood rush to her face and a twinge of something shoot through her. Embarrassment? Shame? There was an annoying sting in her heart. She felt dazed, her vision seemed to zoom in, the rest fading into white. Her grip tightened even harder.

"Evy!" Stu hissed.

The world came rushing back.

"Be cool," he whispered, as though reading her mind.

Another burst from a laser musket made the two of them jump.

Eve's finger instantly went to the trigger of her pistol. She held it just a few inches from the wall, ready to aim the barrel through the cracks and start firing. Her hands were shaking. There were stories about ghouls running into the wrong Minutemen. _I'm not ending up that way_ she thought. _I'm not going to help some new recruit prove something to his buddies._

"Thought I saw something!" another grunt shouted.

"Jesus…fucking…" Stu muttered under his breath watching the grunts. He'd yet to unholster his pistol. He just stood glued to the hole in the wall, holding his breath.

A few minutes passed as the recruits marched down the street. Time crawled by agonizingly slow. It felt like hours before they were gone. Stu fell on his back away from the wall, turned his head to the ceiling, and let out an audible sigh. Eve rested her pistol on the floor. She looked at her hand. The edges of the handle had dug deep enough into her palms to leave a mark. She squeezed her fingers into her palm. She lay her head back against the wall and took a deep, shaky breath. Pressure was building against the back of her eyes but she suppressed the tears. The fear was gone but a dull painful void remained in her chest.

After a long bout of silence she finally stood up.

"Let's go," she said, picking up her own bag from the foot of her bed.

Stu rocked himself forward from his back and looked at her. "CIT? Are you sure?"

She nodded.

The Commonwealth Institute of Technology wasn't too far away from Eve's home – maybe a half hours walk. That usually equates to an hour of travel if you're trying to avoid firefights and skirmishes. It was easy to get caught in a crossfire if you didn't know how to maneuver the city. The two of them had been traveling the Commonwealth long enough to get a sense of what to avoid. Ducking through abandoned apartments and carefully treading through the destroyed streets of Boston, they made it to the university without taking on any fire.

They approached the building side by side. Each of them holstered their weapons. Strangely enough, the CIT building was one of the safer places in the Commonwealth. Besides the occasional scavver, people avoided the place like it was radioactive – and some parts of it were, though no more than most other places in the Commonwealth. People avoided it because they knew what it was: a graveyard. The Institute, the terrifying, evil organization that once snatched people from their homes and replaced them with indistinguishable doppelgangers made in laboratories, at one point operated deep below the wreckage of the school. Now, beneath the monolithic ruins of the once great hub of American education, if the stories were to be believed, lay a mass grave of scientists and synthetic humans massacred by the Minutemen under the command of General Nathaniel "Osha" Dulles - for crimes against humanity and the charge of being an abomination respectively.

From there it all happened so fast. Radio broadcasts screaming about victory, liberation, an end to the terror and paranoia that haunted the Commonwealth. Many institute survivors were tracked down, tried, and executed in public. Most viewed the resurgent army as a new beginning. Peace and order was finally a possibility after decades of quagmire. The influence of the Minutemen spread faster than anything even the oldest ghouls in the wastes had seen. Every radio was tuned to the Minutemen frequency, their flag, faded-blue with a lightning bolt and musket between three stars, was hanging in settlements everywhere. The Institute died in the ruins and the Minutemen rose again from their ashes. From up here, it was undistinguishable. You would never have known the CIT building served as a gravestone for the scientists buried under its surface.

"I'm not sure what it was like to be a student before the bombs…" Stu said, kicking a piece of drywall from his path as they walked through several towering white pillars and through the university doors, "…but if I spent years going to school and looked out my window to see a nuclear blast…I'd be _pissed."_

Eve ignored him. She looked around the lobby at the scattered papers, broken glass, rubble, and thick layers of dust that covered the room. It wasn't the first time she visited the building. The whole area was great for scavenging pre-war books. Lots of what she'd found were long irrelevant text books and boring non-fiction works, but there was plenty of good novels, short story collections, or even memoirs to be found if you looked hard enough. Those old books made the days pass quicker in her Commons apartment.

Stu didn't seem to mind Eve's silence. He wandered through the lobby and into the next room, his eyes scanning the floors and corners, singing softly as he went. " _Why don't you do right? Like some other men do…_. _Get outta hereeee….get me some money tooooo._ "

Eve walked to the middle of the rotunda, her footsteps echoing as she went. The high ceiling, the massive pillars, the magnitude of the place still captivated her. It was unlike anything the new world had even been close to reproducing.

"Evy! Over here!" a quick yell from the other room sounded through the hall and bounced across the lobby.

Eve walked into the adjacent room to see Stu smiling and shaking an old bundle of papers in his hands.

"It's the student paper for the university!" he practically yelled.

"Um, so?"

"It says right here: 'President approves $200 thousand for new fountain in plaza!'"

She stared at him blankly.

"The students will finally have a place to barbecue and hang out! Community is what makes a school more than just a place to learn."

Eve squinted at him and scowled. "Asshole."

"I'm just fucking with you, Evy. Look, they had to print these somewhere, didn't they?"

"I guess so."

"Well, if we can find the place where they print these, maybe we can get it working again!" He flipped through the pages, looking for some indicator of where to begin searching. "They probably printed them somewhere on campus…"

Eve blinked. "You're doing all of this to impress that journalist?"

Stu's smile faded. His gaze rose from the paper to her, then fell to the ground, his free hand wandering to the back of his neck. "It's not like that, Evy…" he shook his head. "I wouldn't drag you all the way out here on some dumb, excessive pussy hunt. This is more important to me than that."

Eve looked him up and down. The way his tone shifted so quickly, she couldn't help feeling guilty.

"I mean, the hunt would be excessive…not the pussy. I don't know what an excessive pussy would look like. Like…really foldy, I guess."

 _And just like that the guilt's gone._

Stu looked up at her with a smirk but it quickly faded as his tone became heavy again. "Look, you didn't see her that night, Evy. That paper meant a lot to her. It's not like..." he trailed off. "It's not like she was writing anything that wasn't true."

Eve looked at him for a moment then nodded. She gave him a forced smile and grabbed the school paper from his hands. She looked through the pages for several seconds before something caught her eye. "Apparently their office is in room CC321. We should probably look there."

"Where's it say that?" Stu grabbed the paper back, looking over the same page.

"Top right, right next to the headline you so _hilariously_ mocked," Eve replied sarcastically. "Let's check the lobby for a map. I'm sure there's one laying around somewhere."

"You lead the way. I guess there's no hiding it anymore...I-I can't read."

"You're a dick."


	7. Chapter 7

The blast from the jet was cold going down, like a cold breeze rushing into her lungs. Her chest fluttered and the rest of her body tingled. She didn't bother tracking the time, she just stood by the wall watching the street, her gun in her hand and her eyes rarely blinking. The sun had long gone down and the distant ringing of gun fire gradually became less frequent.

No one had walked those streets since the Minutemen patrol, but still Eve kept her eyes on the outside. She took another hit. She never touched jet prior to changing. It didn't do much. Someone in Goodneighbor once told her that most highs are weaker when you become a ghoul. She'd have to take that at face value. She felt a brief euphoria, but mostly a fleeting rush, like the feeling of a sudden burst of enthusiasm or the twinge of excitement that comes from a good idea. Mostly what I did was keep her awake – awake, but paranoid. She backed away from the wall. She had no idea how long she had been watching, just waiting for _something_ to show up. The feeling of paranoia was fading but something new was filling her chest. She stumbled through the darkness of her unlit home and fell onto her makeshift bed. She couldn't even tell what the feeling was anymore, but it was unbearable - an overwhelming sense of indecipherable, dull hurt. Her mind felt cloudy, her chest was heavy, her eyes blurred as the tears rose from inside, staining her pillow. There was no explaining it, no thinking about it, and no refuge from it. It was a dark shadow looming over her constantly without explanation, and now it was consuming her. She curled into a ball and cried. She stifled her pained sobs, part of her instinctually clinging to the importance of keeping quiet less she be heard by the seemingly endless amount of threats the wastes had to offer.

 _Why?_ She groaned softly into her pillow. She squeezed it as hard as she could against her chest. She was desperate, nothing made it hurt less, and nothing conceivably could. She was completely helpless. Her grip on the pillow faded and soon even physical exertion seemed pointless. She lay there, mouth agape, body motionless. She stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, a dull stinging washing over her entire body. She stayed that way until the sun began to break through the cracks in the wall and sleep finally took her.

The next morning, Eve fought to stay asleep. She didn't want to wake up. Already the allure to just stay in bed and wither away entered her mind. Stu left Sunday night to go back to patrolling the castle. He'd probably be back at the end of the week with essentials and scavenge to share, but he only brought so much. She still needed to do some scavenging on her own to sustain herself. It eventually became clear sleep wasn't going to be an option. She fumbled around for the jet canister from last night, carelessly knocking over scattered junk in the process. Her hand found the familiar cylindrical body connected to a mouthpiece. Without looking, she took a hit of what little remained. It wasn't enough, but it would help her get moving.

Breakfast was mostly just nibbling at some pre-war 'pork n' beans,' basic hygiene, then the mechanical routine of strapping armor around her arms, legs, and torso. It was just hardened leather - not much, but something. She checked her old pipe pistol, tucked extra magazines into her belt for quick reloading, and slung her empty bag over her shoulder. She hardly felt up to scavenging, but at least she didn't have to head into town yet. She could be alone with her thoughts for now, but more importantly, away from everyone else.

The Commons mostly consisted of collapsed and dilapidated buildings. Camps of raiders and super mutants were scattered like landmines throughout the city – another thing there was no shortage of. Packs of feral ghouls roamed aimlessly through a lot of the buildings and streets, howling and snarling at anything that sounded remotely like prey. Of course, they left her alone now. That was difficult getting used to. Ferals still made her jump when she saw them. Once you've been attacked by a feral, the experience stayed with you. She always expected to hear the scream and the charge, the grasping hands, the gnashing teeth, the thick black bile pouring from their howling mouths as they sprinted in a psychotic fury towards anything living - but not anymore. It unnerved her, the way they ignored her. To the point she'd often considered antagonizing them just to see if they'd attack her like they used to. As painful as it was to accept that ferals looked at her as 'one of them,' she knew that this was one of the few areas where being a ghoul had its perks – especially if that ghoul was a scavenger.

Eve walked through the city, passing burnt out pre-war cars, destroyed apartments, and shot up streets, making her way into the 'Rot District,' as the locals called it. Most humans didn't bother wandering around there. The radiation was dense in some places, and the place was a hot spot for ferals. She kept her hand on her gun. It _was_ still the city and there was always a chance of jumpy scavvers or chemmed out raiders feeling brave and looking to loot some of the less touched buildings. Poverty and drugs will make people take serious risks.

Turning a corner, Eve tensed and lowered her stance at the sound of rasped cries. That yell – almost more of a hiss, made her shudder. Ferals on the hunt. She followed the noise, treading slowly, conscious of her every footstep. It wasn't the ferals she feared, at least not in a more immediate sense. What she feared was whatever they were after. Creeping past a pre-war ATM she heard feet frantically pounding against the pavement. They were more rhythmic than ferals. Ferals were quick, but they often stumbled mindlessly after their prey. This was a human. _Maybe a raider who decided to take his chances in the Rot District_. The footsteps were coming from around the next corner - and they were getting closer. Eveline readied her weapon.

A scream made her tense up. She heard the runner fall to the ground with a grunt. He screamed again. The sounds of hissing and yelling grew louder.

Eve's mind raced. _If this was a raider why wasn't he opening fire?_ Usually the high ones would sooner fight to the death than run away. _Had he run out of ammo and panicked? Did he drop his gun?_

There wasn't time to think about it. Adrenaline pumping, she made her call. Turning the corner quickly she saw three ferals charging a collapsed, dirty looking man curled up on the ground. She opened fire with her pipe pistol, the first round catching one of the ghouls in the leg causing it to collapse, the next couple hit one of the others in the chest, downing him. The rest of her shots were thrown off by recoil. They missed and whizzed past the third ghoul. To her surprise, the feral stopped in its tracks, confused. The ghoul with the wounded leg continued to crawl towards the man with the blind obsession and fixation only a rabid beast could manage. It snarling madly, dragging its legless torso behind it. The third ghoul regained its composure, locked eyes with Eve and let out a screech so rough and harsh it made her blood run cold. It threw its arms up and charged towards her, its mouth wide open and its eyes bulging from its skull with a depraved, furious stare. Eve quickly reached into her belt for another magazine. She let the empty one drop to the floor and popped in the next. She quickly chambered a round and aimed her pistol, this time taking care to fight back her nerves. Hold her breath and aiming carefully she opened fire. A few seconds later, both ferals were dead.

Slowly, she relaxed her shoulders, and looked around to see if there were any more in sight. _Looks clear_. She took a deep breath, observing the mangled corpses of the ferals. She had her answer. The beasts were mad, but not oblivious. If she ever harmed one, they would attack with just as much rage as they would any non-ghoul.

She looked over. The man on the floor was still curled up in a ball, his eyes squeezed shut, and his breathing frantic. Eve approached him carefully, her gun just slightly lowered so as not to frighten him, but not so much she couldn't gun him down if he tried anything.

 _For all I know this guy is a twitchy raider who will gouge my eyes out._

"Hey!" she yelled a little louder than she meant to. Her ears were still ringing from the shots. "You alright?"

The man opened his eyes and looked towards the three dead ghouls just ten feet away from him. He was still registering what just unfolded. He turned his head to look at her, and his eyes widened in terror. He let out a short yell and stumbled back from a confused Eve.

"Relax!" she said, lowering her pistol and taking a step back. "I'm not feral!"

Her words did nothing to calm the man. He held his hands up and cowered beneath her. "Please!" he begged her, on the verge of tears. "Just let me go! I won't say anything! I'll leave the Commonwealth! You'll never see me again!"

Eve stared at him unsure what to think. She noticed a tattoo on his forehead. _B+_ written in black ink above his left eye. Despite his constant shaking, she also managed to make out that the man's wrists were deeply bruised. Looking closer, the fingernails on his right hand were missing. He wore green military pants and a white shirt that was caked in dried blood and dirt. His face was bruised and bloodied, with several open cuts along his cheeks, forehead, nose, and chin.

 _Someone fucked this guy UP_ she thought to herself.

He was clearly a gunner. A lot of them tattooed their blood type on their foreheads so the field medic could give them an emergency transfusion during combat if needed. She never knew why they went with the forehead. Maybe for intimidation value.

She crouched slightly to look closer at his hand. _Radiation? No, that wouldn't make any sense, all of his nails would have fallen out, not just the one hand._

The man looked at her from under his raised arms. He was still shaking. "Please, just let me go," he whimpered beneath her.

Eve didn't answer. She looked around again. This wasn't right. _What the hell scared him like this? Why was this guy unarmed?_ Her heart jumped when something suddenly caught her eye from down the street. There was a flash of light from an elevated window. Her eyes widened and she dove to the floor cursing as a single shot boomed from the distance. A cry went out behind her as she scrambled back around the street corner for cover. She pushed up against the wall, heart pounding, her breathing shallow and rapid. She didn't need to look to know the gunner was dead. Eve got up and made a run down the block she came from. A few ferals was one thing, but a sniper? Some beat up merc wasn't worth getting her head blown off. She ran for a few blocks, zigzagging for good measure. The whole time the hairs on the back of her neck stood up in anticipation of another shot from a window or rooftop. The shot never came. She was well away from the Rot District before she decided she was probably safe. She had no idea what just happened. Why the sniper prioritized the injured, cowering man over the armed ghoul was beyond her. Scavenging was going to have to wait for tomorrow. She went home empty handed, in dire need of a drink and some rest.


	8. Chapter 8

The castle walls were once a dilapidated heap of scattered concrete, a shadow of the fortress it was before the war – or so people said. The previous castle had fallen during the collapse of the old Minutemen, though even then, it wasn't much to look at. When the Minutemen first held the castle most of the walls were caved in with hardly enough space for a sizable battalion. When General Osha took it back from hordes of nesting Mirelurks and their queen, reconstruction began instantly. Barracks were refurbished and expanded, the walls were reconstructed, fortified and manned constantly, barricades went up all along the castle entrance, artillery was constructed within the walls, and men in full power armor patrolled the route leading to the castle as well as around the water purifier outside the wall's bounds. There were never less than thirty soldiers stationed at the castle at any one time. It was a pillaring testament to the strength and militancy of the new Minutemen.

And yet, despite the well-fortified, intimidating air of the place, most of the soldiers recognized it as a cushy job. The walls and guards kept out most wildlife and raiders. Even super mutants knew better than to try attacking such a well-guarded fortress. Most soldiers at the castle spent all day smoking, playing cards, and otherwise pretending to work. The castle's purpose was to fight a mental battle, not a physical one. It projected strength - and that was enough.

Stu was watching the Southwestern wall overlooking the river, meaning there wasn't much to do other than take potshots at distant mirelurks. That would get boring quickly, and most of the crew would complain about the noise, so he usually just resolved to smoking and daydreaming. In his head he was making an inventory of the things needed for the printing press he'd found with Evy. It was far larger than the one Piper had in Diamond City, but that also meant it would be able to print a lot more papers. But they still needed to get it working. A lot of bits and pieces of scrap had been picked from the machinery. The conveyor belt was missing chains in a few places, several of the cylindrical pieces the papers were rolled out on were damaged and needed to be replaced or possibly jury rigged, and the fusion generator was missing its core. Thankfully, lots of the ink and the large rolls of paper used to print were still on site in a locked backroom. He and Eve had managed to bust off the lock after a few attempts. It wouldn't be too much work, according to Evy. He resolved to purchase or scavenge the rest of the scrap at the end of the week. The thought of the printing press up and running again brought him some comfort from the stinging he felt deep in his chest. It was something, but it wasn't enough.

 _Maybe when I finish_.

He was only needed on site four days out of the week. He was relieved Thursday night and didn't need to be back until Monday. The truth was that since Osha took control, mandatory conscription became unnecessary. There were plenty of men available. The renewed popularity of the Minutemen, privileges entitled to soldiers, and the truce brokered between the Gunners and Minutemen during Melting Steel were enough to maintain a large standing army. Any sudden need for soldiers could easily be met by contracting mercenaries. Gunners were far more experienced than wastelanders. Despite the training the Minutemen offered, the Gunners had been around for longer. They were also less likely to ask questions or raise objections, and the Minutemen couldn't be held immediately responsible for anything they did – something often taken advantage of by the top brass. Making nice with the Gunners effectively doubled the size of the Minutemen's arm and left their army a force to be reckoned with.

"Sturgeon!" a shout from behind him brought Stu out of his daze and sent thoughts of rolling presses and ink on paper fading away.

It was Sergeant Marcos. A large, scowling beret clad man with wide shoulders and a gaze that never seemed to relax. It always seemed as though he was holding back the desire to strangle the person he was talking to. "You're up!" he yelled, pointing over his shoulder.

Stu sighed and got up from his chair. He made his way down the inner stairs, down toward the castle yard, and into the Sergeant Major's office.

Stu strolled in casually and walked towards the Sergeant Major's desk. A plastic bin stacked several inches high with papers lie in the corner next to a small lamp, several notebooks, and a terminal. The Major smoked a cigar while typing, the smoke pooling in the dim light of his desk lamp. The stone walls of the castle made the place cold and dreary. A large framed picture of a stern faced Osha was framed on the wall behind him. Sturgeon had never met Osha in person, and whenever he saw pictures or photos of him, he was glad he hadn't. Even images of the man were intimidating. Osha's dark blue eyes stared straight ahead as though staring down some unseen foe from afar. Thick, combed back, black hair covered his head. His forehead was wrinkled and his brow furrowed giving the impression he was deeply focused. A short scraggly black beard covered the lower half of his face, broken only by a grimacing mouth and a long scar that ran from the right side of his jaw diagonally over his nose and up to his left eyebrow.

"You know the routine, private," the Major said. He handed Stu a folder without looking up from his terminal.

Stu took the papers and went into the attached room. A table, two chairs, and an overhead light were all that decorated its interior. The single light source was inadequate for the scale of the room, leaving the corners cast in darkness and the table in a cold impersonal spotlight.

Seated at the table was a woman in a white lab coat. Stu rolled his eyes. _Why do they wear those ridiculous things? It's a fucking mental evaluation, not a heart transplant._

The woman's hair was tied back tightly in such a way that her forehead could not follow the rest of her expression. Her mouth was curled in a frown and crow's feet were carved in the sides of her eyes. She was looking over a clipboard with one hand, the other fiddled with a pen.

She looked up from her clipboard and at Stu. Her frown remained in place. "Hello, Private. How are you today?" The way she spoke was mechanical and business like – utterly devoid of any sincerity.

"Surviving," Stu replied pulling up a chair across from the 'doctor.' He considered asking her where she went to school, but decided it would be better to skip the small talk so things could be over quickly.

 _Probably not a good idea to mock the woman deciding your fate anyway._

"Let's get started…" she said blandly. She took a deep breath and flipped the page on her clipboard. "You are approached by a baby radstag while wandering through the wasteland. She is badly injured, apparently she has been shot by a hunter. Do you:

Finish it off and keep the hide and meat for yourself.

Find the hunter and help them carry the radstag back to their home.

Treat the injured animal to the best of your ability and cry tears of joy as it frolics back into the wilderness.

Run away. Wild animals are dangerous.

Stu sighed. "D, I guess." He hated the SAFE test. There was no official reason for the test, but everyone knew it was to weed out synths from within Minutemen ranks. There wasn't any way of knowing how effective it was, and Stu had no idea how the questions in any way determined whether someone was a synth. The questions were updated each time it was given, and each time he passed despite never really answering with much sincerity. It was pretty much universally agreed that the whole experience was a pointless ritual to satisfy bureaucratic demands from the managerial folks.

The woman in the lab coat scribbled down something on her notepad. "Next question: Your good friend excitedly tells you that there is a great god living deep within the darkest depths of the ocean. He tells you that he needs your help summoning this god so that you may together bring on the end of days. Do you:

Seek medical attention for your clearly disturbed friend.

Pretend to be on board with your friend's plan to better understand the reasoning behind his strange new religion.

Murder your friend. There is no god but Quetzalcoatl.

Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'naglfhtagn.

Stu cocked an eyebrow and pulled his head back. _Who the hell writes this shit?_

"Ummm….B?"

Ten to fifteen minutes of the SAFE test put a crick in the neck and back like it had been hours.

 _God damn I'm stiff._ Stu took the long way around to his post in an attempt to stretch out his legs after the interview. He climbed the large stone steps to the peak of the castle walls. Up along the northern wall he passed three Minutemen arguing amongst themselves.

"…and that's just why they had to be booted out. The synths are bad enough, I bet they're still being made out there by what's left of the bastards from the Institute, but the ghouls are a god damned infestation that we never got rid of. We know there's plenty of them still out there! And those things will rip your throat out and eat you!" A man with orange hair sticking out from his pinned up tricorn hat, dark freckles, and a round, child-like face was rambling at his comrades.

 _Daniel Parson, the biggest bullshitter in the Commonwealth._ Sturgeon rolled his eyes at the man's words.

A blonde woman with deep red cheeks and a sharp nose, Emily Burke, sat with her hat resting in her lap and her feet propped on the sandbags covering the guard post. She scoffed. "They don't eat people, they just kill 'em for killins' sake. That's what's so fucked up 'bout them. And it's not like they were keepin' ferals in Diamond City, they kicked out the ones that talk n' walk around just like us."

Another woman he didn't recognize, with chestnut colored skin and dark frizzy hair tied back into a ponytail spoke up. "But they can go feral at any time. One minute they're talking with you and everything is normal, next thing you know the thing is snarling on top of you, ready to rip you to pieces!"

Burke nodded with a sneer. "Don't even matter if they go feral – which they will, don't you worry! They all got an attitude. They blame the rest of us for them being the fucked up zombies they are and expect us all to kiss their asses because of it! Like it's my fault they didn't take the fuckin' rad-x when they could!"

"Never met a ghoul that was humble about his problem," Daniel chimed in in agreement. "And now we're hearing that they're conspiring!"

Sturgeon scowled in disgust at the conversation. It never got easier: ignoring the hatred. They aired their bigotry so casually. Friends and neighbors got together to validate hateful language and reaffirm prejudice. What was once at the least impolite eventually became normal. They spoke freely of their contempt for ghouls, allowed to say almost any generalization they pleased, the notion of their words being challenged not even crossing their minds. Such conversation had long ceased to be controversial and simply became a normal part of life. No one was around to defend the ghouls, and even if someone was, they would always be drowned out by the voices that confirmed the truth already believed. The hate had become self-sustaining. Were it even challenged, antagonistic narratives awaited the people on the airwaves. _They_ hate you. _They_ want to take from you. _They_ want to have more than you. Minutemen broadcasts or anonymous "travelers" out on the caravan trails sought to argue against the manufactured enemy, fanning the flames when necessary. The façade of impartiality in contemporary news sources became grossly apparent when one looked close enough. The displacement at the Slog was virtually uncovered by Minutemen radio, in some sense because the attention was unwanted, but also because such displacements became so commonplace that they were hardly considered newsworthy. Meanwhile, the feral killing the settlement child was a month long story – though virtually no coverage existed regarding the number of people killed by human raiders the same day. The ghouls in the glowing sea ghettoes mauled to death by wandering deathclaws, or poisoned by a radscorpion sting; their stories were so common that no one payed attention anymore. It was known but never spoken of with any concern – from boredom, indifference, or animosity towards the victims, one couldn't say. But when a ghoul from the same ghettoes robbed and shot a caravan from Bunker Hill, a week long manhunt ensued, ending with dozens of ghouls arrested and several dead. The stations cheered on the whole thing, spinning the hunt into spectacle.

Contempt grew from already ostracized ghoul communities bearing the burden of collective punishment. The people failed to understand the origin of the contempt, fueling the belief that the ghouls were spiteful, prejudiced, and responsible for their own misery.

Sturgeon thought of Evy and he felt the same nagging stinging from earlier. When he got through her shell he came to admire the awe she possessed for the world. She'd never left Diamond City for any longer than a few days, and seeing the rest of the wasteland was breathtaking to her. Shy as she was, that spark became clear as day when you spoke to her for long enough. Even after the rough nights in the trenches, bullets flying overhead, and explosions raining around them, her wonder never faded. Until she became a ghoul. She was never the same after that night outside Zimonja. He remembered one night, not too long after it happened, she asked him how she could ever go back home the way she was. He had no answer for her. She was the same woman she always was, but he knew that wouldn't matter. Leaving that life behind, he saw part of her disappear. Even when she laughed or smiled, he never saw that same light inside of her. He feared it had gone out. And now, hearing his fellow soldiers talk, he couldn't understand how someone could condemn someone with no concept of how much suffering they'd endured.

"Sturgeon!" Burke yelled toward him as he passed by. "Did the doc tell ya if you were a synth or are ya still real?"

"They let me out, so I guess I'm still human."

"Yup, looks like I'm real too!" she grinned at him.

 _Yeah, a real pieces of shit._ He hated that grin. He couldn't see it without seeing all the self-assuredness and smugness behind it. She believed every word she was saying to her comrades with all her heart and soul.

He hurried past them, not wanting to look at any of them anymore, and certainly not wanting to be dragged into their conversation.

"Synths are a whole other problem…" he heard Daniel begin behind him. "They don't just snatch you up and replace you. They'll hole you up for days and torture you, interrogate you, find out all they can so they can replicate your every move. Then they go to your home and fuck your wife pretending to be you! Can you believe how sick that shit is?"

Sturgeon's stride accelerated as much as the limits of suspicion would allow as he returned to his post. He practically collapsed into his chair as he tried to catch his breath. His throat suddenly felt tight. He tried to swallow. An overwhelming feeling that something was wrong enveloped him. He gasped for air. A skewering sensation ripped through him, accompanied by a cold sweat that left his forehead and palms clammy.

"Fuck me…I can't breathe," he muttered between gasps. His chest kept feeling tighter. _Did someone poison me?_

He wiped the sweat from his forehead while his other hand went to his throat. His fingers followed the grooves of the single, continuous scar that encircled his neck. The wind picked up as the sun neared the end of its decent below the horizon. Looking up, breathing labored with his hand on his throat, the sky above appeared crimson red. The reflection of the light shone a blanket of pink over the river. He looked into the water and saw himself drowning, the hulking image of the crimson sky the only sight that greeted him when he managed to surface his head and gasp for air. His arms flailed wildly in an attempt to stay afloat. He looked down into the water and saw only blackness. The sight of nothing but red sky above him filled him with horror but the prospect of sinking into the darkness forced him to swim upward as best he could. His arms searched for something to hold onto, but found nothing. Looking down again, he caught a glimpse of something in the darkness. A faint outline began rising from the depths. He was in horror but he couldn't look away. The outline became clearer as it drew closer. His heart was beating out of his chest, so hard he could hear pounding in his ears. Soon the shape of a body came into vision. It was rotted, blue in color, its clothes tattered and its face twisted in an expression of pure terror. He thrashed his arms and legs wildly at the sight of the bloated corpse rising towards him. Below, hundreds more outlines becoming visible. Slowly, drowned, rotting corpses were rising up from the black depths underneath him. He cried and screamed helplessly causing his lungs to fill with water. It all felt so real. Everything went dark. And suddenly he was back on the wall overlooking the wasteland. Trembling, he turned his chair so his back faced the rest of the castle. His face fell into his quaking hands, but the tears wouldn't come. He whimpered while the stinging guilt inside of him had its way with his thoughts.


	9. Chapter 9

"That's 300, but I can let it go for about 200 if you'll spare the circuitry and some of that aluminum scrap." The trader chewed on a cigar as he spoke. He was a handsome man, in his early 30s – late 20s, muscular, with a shaven head and dark stubble. "But I'll tell you what," he removed his cigar from his mouth, "if you've got 20 in libertalias, the chain and gears are yours and I'll pay you for the scrap in caps...maybeee around 130."

Eveline shook her head, "No paper money, sorry." His offer almost made her scoff at him, but she hid her reaction. _Of course I don't have any libertalias, you insensitive prick. I'm a fucking ghoul!_

The Minutemen printed libertalias up in Sanctuary. They were used to pay soldiers and they were the only currency accepted for confederation taxes and tolls. Gunner contractors refused to accept anything other than libertalias in Minutemen territory under the pact – at least, officially. People could pay in caps if they were short on paper money, but there was usually a risk fee involved. A steady source of their own currency coming in through taxes and tolls gave the Minutemen a legitimized means to build and finance their army. Simultaneously, the Minutemen were providing deeds to land through purchase or homesteading. Of course with enforced property norms and large scale markets, a new order arose. Landless people in the confederated settlements were working more than ever, many of them selling their labor to a minority of property owners. From the desire for capital came a more productive workforce, and from a productive workforce came higher output in farming and manufacturing. The settlements were prospering but a stark contrast in the distribution of wealth arose alongside a work weary population. Promises of pay and land to retiring soldiers piggybacked on the elevated social status associated with enlistment, leading many of the poor to join the army. Osha had built the foundations of his new empire.

The trader scratched his beard and resumed smoking his cigar. "Well, that's a shame. Bunker Hill could always use some of that paper stuff laying around. It makes trading with the settlements way easier. We got enough business from settlement these days that the Confederation decided caravans ought to pay tolls too." He shrugged. "But I guess it's worth the safety they got in their territory."

"Uh-huh." Eve replied uninterested. "So 200 with the scrap? Wait, what if I throw in this," she removed the cryo grenade Stu gave her from her pack and offered it to the trader.

"Sorry, not interested. The crew here are plenty equipped to get me and Mila home safe." He patted his brahmin while pointing over his shoulder at a man and woman clad in combat armor carrying assault rifles.

Eve sighed and tucked the grenade into her coat pocket. "Suit yourself. Alright, 200 plus the scrap, and another 100 for the core." This was digging deep but it felt worth it. She allowed herself to become invested in the newspaper project. It was something to do and it gave her some purpose. It had been a long while since she'd felt useful.

She counted out his caps while he packed away the scrap and wrapped up her purchase. "Thanks, a bunch." He turned to his mercenaries, "We better head out. We're due in Diamond City before night." He turned back to Eveline, whose head perked up at the mention of her home town. "Hopefully, I'll see you again. Don't get killed out there."

Just before the trader could turn around, Eve called to him. "Wait! You're going to the Jewel?"

"Yup, then we pass by a few of the smaller farms and such until we get to the GNN."

"Have you been there before?

"Sure, why?"

"Do you know – I mean, can you maybe…" she stopped herself. "Never mind."

The trader eyed her for a moment and shrugged. He headed out alongside his brahmin, one mercenary in front of him, another trailing closely behind.

She was going to ask him if he could maybe relay a message to her parents, or ask about them, or… _anything._ But it was a risk. She never saw them or told them about being discharged. If her parents contacted the Minutemen, policy was not to release the details of specific soldiers. At most, they'd only tell them she was no longer enlisted. If she reached out, they would just go crazy looking for her, and she couldn't face them as a ghoul. It was better this way. If she made contact, it would only get their hopes up, and asking the trader to check up on them was too risky.

She headed south, back to the Commons, lugging her supplies on her back. She made sure to double wrap her bottle caps. A raider could pick up the sound of caps jingling from halfway across the wasteland. She walked, the familiar paranoia creeping up inside her, as it so often did when she traversed the city alone. The roads leading into the central Commonwealth were caked in ash and dust, even 200 years after the bombs fell. No semblance of order had reached the large, concrete war zone. Small camps of raiders, mutants, and territorial scavvers occupied every other block, the buildings serving as convenient shelter one minute and an excellent vantage point the next. The sounds of bullets and explosions echoed endlessly through the shells of old buildings. It took a while for travelers to learn which spots were safe and which spots put you directly in the line of fire. Even then, forces came and went, and no place was safe for long.

Eveline was halfway home when a sound from an adjacent building caught her attention. She drew her pistol and quickly ducked behind a tipped over pre-war car. She listened carefully and made out someone talking.

It was a woman's voice.

"It's too dangerous. They already practically run Diamond City. Once they start sending people to take the South, they're going to be pushing into the rest of the city," the woman said.

A man replied, his tone cocky and brazen. "So what? The city has been in chaos for as long as anyone can remember. They ain't taming this place! And there's about a hundred destroyed Brotherhood vertibirds around that can testify. Why even bother? There's nothing in it for them!"

Eve was going to sneak past but the conversation peaked her curiosity. _Were the Minutemen finally closing in on the city? They held the northwest and most of the south outside the glowing sea. Maybe they were finally looking to connect their territories._

The woman spoke again. "I'm only going off what I've been hearing on the radio. I think to be safe we should move north. Put a wall of super mutants between us and them. "

 _That explains the patrol I saw with Sturgeon…I've really fallen out of the loop…_ Eveline hadn't listened to the Minutemen radio station since she was enlisted. It was too painful. She decided to sneak away quietly, but no sooner had she decided to leave when she spotted three more raiders walking up the block, headed right for her position.

"Shit!" she cursed under her breath. She twisted around quickly to look for a place to hide, but her foot caught on a protruding fragment of concrete in the road.

"Oomph!" she fell to the ground with a thud.

"What the fuck!?" she heard the woman raider yell. "What the hell was that!?"

Eveline jumped to her feet quickly, and made a dash for the building across the street.

"There!" she heard someone yell. Suddenly the cackling of machine gun fire went off behind her.

She dove for cover, through a slightly elevated storefront window. Laying prone on the floor, she pushed her body as far up against the wall beneath the window as she could. Bullets riddled the register counter and the wall behind her, sending bits of drywall crashing to the floor. She heard the raiders screaming her location to each other, followed by the sounds of more people sprinting down the road. More shots went off across the street. A round punched through the wall just a few inches from her head, leaving a large fist sized puncture in the concrete. She gasped. _That must have been a .50 cal._ She crawled on the floor as fast as she could to get behind the store counter for better cover. More fire erupted, sending bullets whizzing over her head. _Cha Ching!_ The cash register atop the storefront counter went off as a .50 caliber round sent it hurling to the floor. Eve lifted herself up just slightly and used all her strength to leap behind the counter. A machine gun round ripped through her bag midair while another caught her in the calf. She let out a pained scream before scrambling to make sure her entire body was in cover. She kicked the fallen cash register out of her way and threw off her bag with a grunt, booming gunfire all around her. She lifted her hand over the counter and fired her pistol blindly in the direction of the raiders.

"SHIT! Get down!" one of them yelled. They returned fire. The haze of fire sent more debris raining down on her in a white cloud as rounds continues to tear apart the building around her.

Eve cursed between heavy breaths as she reloaded her pistol. She was covered in dust. She checked her leg. Her wound was beginning to bleed through her pant leg, but there was little pain.

 _Fuck fuck fuck what do I do?_ She fired over the counter, three successive shots, and heard a woman cry out in pain.

"You fucking bitch!" someone spat out across the street. "I'll fucking burn you!"

 _Oh fuck! Come on. Come on. Think!_ She wiped dust from her face. Her mind raced, searching for a solution.

The bullets stopped but she could practically feel the murderous stares fixated on her position. "Rah!" she heard one of them let out a grunt. Eveline heard glass shattering and felt a rush of heat. Fire lit up the front of the store. _Shit! They have molotovs!?_

Eveline whimpered, her back against the counter, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. _What do I do!?_ A maddening desperation washed over her. The hail of gunfire stirred up again in a cacophonous roar. More dust rained down on her, sticking to her tear covered cheeks. Several large chunks from the wall collapsed to the ground in front of her. Eveline looked up. An idea came to her.She fired several rounds directly into the wall, they went right through. She began kicking with her uninjured leg. Chunks of the structure caved from the force of her boot. She returned fire over the counter again to hold back the tide. Reloading, she shot the wall a few more times and continued kicking, attempting to collapse enough of it to create an escape route.

"Throw another!" someone shouted. Eve's eyes shot open. She kicked frantically, panicked grunts escaped her throat as she waited in fearful anticipation of another molotov. Suddenly the sound of a machine gun erupted from above her. She heard several raiders cry out in pain as an unknown assailant opened fire from an upper floor. She heard the sound of glass shattering - further away this time. One of the raiders screamed in agony.

"Up! UP!" Someone yelled. It was chaos. Bullets flew in every direction. Eve let out a yell and managed to kick out a large section of the wall in front of her, just below a wooden support beam. She crawled under it, yells and gunfire ringing out all around her. She squeezed through the opening then reached back into the room to pull her bag through with her. Gunfire rained from the upper floor down into the raider encampment. Eveline didn't know who had saved her, but she didn't care, and she knew instantly she had to return the favor. Crawling to her feet, she remained in a crouched position as she escaped the store through a side entrance in the back room. She looked back as the flames spread and smoke filled the store. Pistol forward and head down, she ran back outside as fast as she could on her injured leg. There was instant relief at no longer being pinned down. Limping her way up the corner, she felt a rattle in her pocket. _The cryo grenade!_ She reached into her coat and pulled it out. She peered around the corner and saw several dead raiders littering the street. There were at least three more of them, rifles and pistols aimed at an upper floor, returning fire on the unknown attacker. Not missing the opportunity, Eve pulled the pin from the grenade, counted to three and hurled it towards their position.

One of the raiders looked down. Her eyes went wide and her mouth opened up to yell, but before she could, the grenade went off. A burst of greyish white, and an explosion that sounded like millions of tiny shards raining down to the floor, engulfed the three remaining raiders in a coat of paralyzing white frost. Their faces were twisted in shock, but their yells fell silent as their bodies froze. Not wasting time, Eveline aimed her pistol and fired. Her first bullet blew off the closest raider's frozen hand, splintering it into pieces. The raiders all turned in her direction slowly, barely able to maneuver their bodies. Her next few shots caught the closest raider in the chest, several more sent the second one to the ground dead. Her gun clicked. _Jammed_. She ducked back behind the corner to remove the caught round. _Stu was right. I really need a new gun._ Peering around the corner, the third raider managed to aim his rifle in her direction, but before he could fire, another string of bullets from above penetrated his skull. He lurched over, lifeless.

There was an eerie quiet. A soft breeze blew through the street, sending stray bullet cases rolling gently along concrete and asphalt. The buildings were covered in holes and the stench of gunpowder still hung in the air. Blood pooled around the mangled raider corpses that covered the streets and storefronts. Eveline limped closer to the scene, pistol aimed near the raider camp. She kept out of the line of fire from the upper windows by hugging the wall as she went, occasionally glancing upward for any sight of a gun. There was no telling if the gunman that saved her life had merely helped her by accident, thinking they themselves were being attacked, or perhaps they were an opportunist that saw a chance to catch some raiders off guard for their loot. She was injured _and_ a ghoul. Even scavvers might take the opportunity to kill her.

"HO DOWN THERE! YOU ALRIGHT?" a strong, raspy voice bellowed down from above.

She didn't answer right away. She carefully scanned the building encampment. It looked empty. She decided to take a chance – hopefully this person was sincere.

"I'm good!" she shouted up to the man. _Mostly._ She looked at her leg, it was still bleeding. "Does it look clear from up there?" she shouted again as she removed her bag and began looking for cloth to bandage her leg with.

"Just bodies from here. Caps, chems, guns, and ammo are all yours if you want 'em, sister." By now she could tell from the voice that the man was a ghoul. "Um, thanks, I guess!" she yelled in response to his offer. She took an extra shirt and tied it over her wound. _That'll do for now._

"Got a stimpack for that leg?"

She looked up but didn't see anyone. "No…but-"

"I'll be right down!" the man cut her off.

Before she could react, the ghoul was descending the third floor, swiftly jumping downward onto an awning, then again to the street, landing a few feet in front of her. Rising, Eveline was struck instantly by the way he carried himself; purposeful and confident. His face was full, with rounded, gentle features, its softness betrayed by fiery, passionate eyes. He smiled a thoughtful, yet toothless, smile. His torso was bundled up in a shredded, olive combat jacket. Bullet holes and tears served as a testament to the amount of combat and crisis he'd witnessed. A large grey assault rifle was swung over his back alongside a small burlap sack.

"Let's get you a place to sit and I'll take care of that flesh wound of yours. It is just a flesh wound, correct?"

"I think so," Eve grunted as he helped her to a seat inside the former raider camp.

Dragging over a small table he crouched and propped her injured leg up while he removed his burlap bag to retrieve a stimpack.

"Ready?" he asked.

She nodded and he injected the stimpack into her calf. She winced and let out a small groan at the pinch of the needle. She sighed in relief as the familiar hiss went off and the pain gradually subsided. She looked down to see the wound sealing, pushing a small, bloodied .38 round from the hole in her calf.

The ghoul rolled her pant leg back down with a satisfied nod. "Sometimes you just need a little radioactivity to set you straight, but old fashioned medicine usually does the trick better. Just using rads, you might've walked around the rest of your life with a piece of lead stuck in you."

"I, uh, I guess so. I've never really tried." She'd honestly forgotten that radiation healed ghouls. She was still afraid of it, not just from instinct but also for fear that it would exacerbate her ghoulification, possibly even turning her…feral.

"You haven't been a ghoul for long, have you? Well, you'll be happy to know that hair of yours would've fallen out within the first week or so if you were going to lose it. Same goes for the voice. Looks like you're one of the lucky ones."

"Lucky, huh?" _I sure as shit don't feel lucky. Though, the hair and voice thing is kind of a relief._

He chuckled, his laugh wheezy and rough. "Sorry, I guess that was a little insensitive. The first few years can be rough. Some folks never get through it, but seeing what you did back there, I'm willing to bet you're a survivor."

Eveline removed her leg from the table and sat upright, both feet on the ground. The pain was completely gone now, and she was able to put pressure on her calf without any issue. It wasn't the first time she'd used a stimpack, but it still amazed her how quickly they worked.

The ghoul smiled approvingly. "Looks like you'll be alright, sister."

Eveline looked at him, "Thanks for the stim – and the help. I didn't know if I was going to make it out of there. "

"We gotta look out for each other out here. It's not like anyone else is." It took Eve a moment to realize he meant ghouls when he said 'we.'

"I'm Mikhail Berkman, by the way. Just Berkman will do. I never liked going by Mikhail." The ghoul offered his hand to her with another smile.

"Eveline." She took his hand and shook it. "Eveline Le Guin."

"Well, Eveline, it's good to meet you. Mind if I ask where you're from?"

"Uh, Diamond City…"

"Diamond City…" he looked at her, taken aback. His expression dampened and he looked at her remorsefully. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

She didn't answer. This was why she didn't want to be around people. It was hard to muster up enough enthusiasm to speak with someone, and when she did, it seemed like every conversation led her to something painful.

"How long?" he asked her.

She took a moment before responding. "Around four months."

"It's true what I said, you know. The first few years are the hardest. It _does_ get easier, sister."

Usually pep talks did nothing for her, but hearing it from another ghoul, someone who understood, it helped.

"Thanks…really."

"Of course. Now, since we're all well acquainted and friendly, I think I owe it to you to tell you that rusted mesh of plumbing ain't gonna cut it out here," he pointed to her waist where her pipe pistol was holstered.

Eve laughed, surprising herself. It was rare a stranger got a laugh out of her. She removed the pistol and looked it over.

"You make that thing yourself, or did you pick it off a raider? Either way, that just won't do. You know, I think one of these poor souls had a 10mm. Something like that more your speed? Let's see if we can find it." His back was turned and he was headed towards the dead raiders before she even opened her mouth to respond. Nudging a face down corpse over with his boot, he kneeled down. "Here we go!" he yelled back at her. He removed the pistol from the raider's hand, prying with some effort. "From my cold dead hands," he chuckled.

Eve snickered. Once, such jokes were morbid and disturbing. Now she was relaxing amidst bodies while her companion rooted through their pockets for loot. The Commonwealth had a way of distorting what was considered ordinary. She'd never seen a raider face to face before leaving Diamond City. As a kid, she was always rushed indoors if the Wall came under fire. She was stationed in the south the first time she'd actually come in contact with raiders – and the first time she had to kill one. Hands trembling, stomach weak and fluttery, the sensation of needing to defecate, she fired a rifle round into a raider's collar bone, the bullet ripped through him, ricocheting up into his neck and out the front of his throat. For weeks the memory haunted her, she couldn't close her eyes without seeing him on the ground, making that gut-wrenching gurgling sound as blood poured from his throat. The moment stayed engraved in her psyche, violating the sanctity of a memory graced near exclusively by graduation ceremonies for Diamond City public school, playdates with her mother and father as a kid, losing her virginity as a young teenager, and the many cheerful memories only someone raised in one of the few bastions of order in the wasteland was granted. But the life of a soldier in post-war Boston demanded that she push on. One kill became two, then three, then six, until eventually she stopped counting. There was no point in keeping track, and dwelling on it only left her asking questions she'd never get the answers to. Rummaging through pockets and former homes for supplies was grim work, but it's what you did. A weak stomach could mean the difference between having enough bullets in a pinch or ending up hanging outside a raider camp.

"Looks like they were sitting on about twenty rounds of 10mm, but that'll go a hell of a long way further than a hundred rounds of .38. Believe me."

He brushed the pistol off against his pants, slid out the magazine and popped a round from the chamber, catching it mid-air. He handed her the empty gun. Eveline ran her hands over the receiver and checked the sights. "It'll do," she holstered her new gun. Removing her bag to put away her pipe pistol, she noticed the bullet hole that tore through the backmost pouch just moments earlier. She opened the bag and removed the fusion core she bought from the cigar-smoking trade. The bullet seemed to have just missed it. _Oh my god. If this thing got hit…I probably wouldn't be here right now._

"Wow," Berkman commented, making the same realization as her. "Looks like you just missed being blown to bits. You might have even taken me with you! What are you doing with one of those anyway? You holding down some leftovers from the Prydwen or something?"

"No…it's for a friend of mine. Well, a friend of his - a girl he's into…but for him to give to her…kinda."

Berkman gave her a strange look. "Tell your friend that pre-war nuclear batteries are no way to a girl's heart."

Eve laughed again. "Yeah, but the book didn't work."

"What?"

"Never mind."

"Right then. I trust you can make your own way home. I suggest you check for supplies quickly, there's always a chance there's more of them. It's never a good idea to linger around here. It might be the only safe places for us now are the glowing sea or the Rot District."

Something about the way he said those last words stuck out to her, but she brushed it off. "Thanks, Berkman."

"By the way, I think you might want to consider carrying something with more distance and stopping power in the future. Minutemen have been spotted around the city, lord knows why. It seems people never learn that you can't tame others with force - doubly so when those people already live by the gun. You have to convince them that the gun isn't worth it, offer them something better. Order without peace is subjugation, and subjugation is unstable."

"Do you really think they'll try to take control of the Commons?"

"I can't say for sure, but if they're already marching through our streets, this is probably just the beginning."

"Could they actually do it? They _did_ beat the Brotherhood."

"With a surprise attack – and on their own soil. The Brotherhood were well armed, well trained, and well organized, but they don't know the Commonwealth. For that matter, they functioned out of one massive military stronghold – in a huge floating blimp! Housing your entire armada up in the skies for the whole damned wasteland to see? It sure made things easy for that new general. But if the Minutemen come into the Commons, they're dealing with invisible, unpredictable enemies. No uniforms, no military strongholds, just a constant bombardment anywhere and everywhere."

"I live in the Commons…I used to be a Minuteman. They made me leave when...this happened. I couldn't go home…I couldn't see my family ever again…and now they're going to force me out of the city?" There was no anger in her voice, just bewilderment. She didn't understand why this needed to happen. She didn't have much built for herself, but to be forced by the same people to rebuild again, after so much had already been taken away, it wasn't right.

Berkman's stared at her, his face grave. "You should head home, sister."


	10. Chapter 10

**Note: File upload wasn't working so this chapter has been ctrl-v'd. Format may be different. Also, I might look into weekly updates to keep myself working. Anyway, enjoy!**

Excited chatter filled the Castle Thursday morning as soldiers ate their breakfasts and headed to their posts. The general was giving a speech at noon to announce the new military agenda, the first time he'd given a public address since the ousting of the Brotherhood of Steel. Sturgeon was once again posted on the wall, but the sergeant major permitted active soldiers to listen to the broadcast while on duty.

Sturgeon turned Radio Freedom up while some pre-war revolutionary era tune faded out. It was noon and General Osha was a punctual man.

The broadcaster announced the General, taking care to emphasize the honor and privilege it was to air the general's words directly from the airwaves. Sturgeon lit his third consecutive cigarette and leaned in close as the Osha's gravelly, authoritative voice came in through the speakers.

"My fellow soldiers, commanding officers, members of our Confederated Settlements, and all people of the Commonwealth, this is General Nathaniel Dulles of the Commonwealth Minutemen. Before we begin, I ask that you all join me in a moment of silence for our recently deceased friend, comrade, and leader, Lieutenant General Juan Benítez."

Sturgeon coughed up a large ball of phlegm from his throat and spit it over the wall.

"Thank you. The Lieutenant General's death comes at a crucial time for our Minutemen. As many of you know, we are beginning a crucial phase in our long term goal of bringing peace, stability, and prosperity to the Commonwealth. Juan was as essential asset in not only building our armed forces to the strongest standing army in the Commonwealth – in fact all of the east coast, but also in orchestrating our newest military operation, a program that we have dubbed: Urban Resurgence."

A sound behind him caused Sturgeon to turn around in his chair. It was the woman he saw talking with Burke and Parson after his SAFE test. She was off duty, as she wasn't wearing her uniform, just a white tee shirt, dirty jeans, and combat boots. Once again, her hair was tied back in a thick, frizzy pony tail. She was quite beautiful when he saw her up close. She flashed him a friendly smile.

"Sorry to bother you, but Dan hasn't shut up since the speech started." She sat down on the ground next to the radio. "Mind if I listen up here?"

Sturgeon shook his head. "Feel free. I don't really feel like talking anyway." Ever since the day when he had that _vision_ , he was on edge. He was hardly sleeping, constantly waking up from nightmares he couldn't remember, some nights lying awake for hours, staring into nothingness. Most of his time was spent reflecting as of late: Evy, Piper, the Commonwealth, his life before heading east.

"Great," the woman said, "We didn't really get a chance to meet, by the way. I'm Beli Torriat. You can just call me Tora though."

Sturgeon gave her a polite smile, "Thomas Sturgeon. Or Stu. Whatever you like." He turned away, eager to put an end to the pleasantries. Despite what he'd said, he wasn't sure he wanted anyone around right now. Lately, he'd felt an uncomfortable hypersensitivity inside him. Emotionally he felt raw and frustratingly sensitive, the slightest interaction often leaving him wishing he could turn invisible. He resumed listening to the broadcast.

"…as a testament to our strength and our resolve. The city will be liberated from mutants, raiders, and ghouls, particularly the insurgencies inciting violence against Confederation and Commonwealth citizens alike. The murder of the Liutenant General was a desperate act of aggression by such ghoul terrorists – a panicked attempt to revoke our presence for fear that our message of peace will subvert their violent ambitions for power and anti-humanism. Such acts will not be tolerated, and to those that seek to cause harm to our people, know there will be no safe haven for you."

 _'The city?'_ Sturgeon's tired brain took a moment to process the general's words when it suddenly hit him like slap in the face. _Had I been so oblivious?_

 _Of course, the Minutemen were trying to push into the city. Why else would there be Minutemen patrolling by Evey's apartment?_

He had to warn her. He had to head into the Commons as soon as he was off duty and he had to make sure no one saw him. Sneaking to the eastern parts of the city was usually easy, but with more patrols, he ran the risk of being spotted.

"…in the wake of our comrade's death and due to the delicate nature of his position, the council has voted by majority, and with my approval, to liquidate the position temporarily for security reasons. The council and I will bear the burden of this additional responsibility, inspired by the strength of our Minutemen as they continue to be a source of hope for all of the Commonwealth. Know that in the arduous mission ahead, our resolve will persevere over chaos, violence, terror, and all those who seek to uproot our way of life."

Flicking his cigarette over the wall, he got out from his chair. "I gotta head to the latrine. Cover for me?"

Tora looked at him surprised. "Uh, sure. You're not going to listen to the speech?"

"I'm sure they'll air it again." He made his way down the steps, passing the barracks on his journey. Daniel Parson could be heard shouting from inside.

"We'll light that fucking city up! About time someone brought the fight to those fucking zombies! Next we'll send our boys in power armor to clean the scum out of the glowing sea!"

Sturgeon groaned. _You can't keep doing this, man. You need to leave._ He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index fingers as he walked. _Where would I even go? It's been…two, three years?_ The first year in the Commonwealth was one of perpetual impoverishment and struggle for Sturgeon. It was rough going until he enlisted. He barely understood who the Minutemen were when he signed his papers and put on his militia hat, but two years traveling through Utah, Arizona, and Colorado, then facing the Commonwealth on his own, it hardly mattered to him. Besides, anything was better than the Mojave. All those years spent traveling, the specter of the Mojave never stopped haunted him. It was always in the back of his mind. What he'd left behind, what waited for him if he ever went back, what could have followed him. Sometimes he still found himself looking over his shoulder.

Sturgeon sighed entering the restroom. He clasped a hand over his face. _I'm not hurting anyone here. I'm not a part of any of this._ He felt an old but familiar feeling in his stomach. Longing. The Minutemen were his first taste of identity in years. To be a part of something, to have a purpose, to be acknowledged as a human being. The Minutemen in all their faults saved his life. If the grind of scavving didn't kill him, his own aimlessness angst would have. The desperation he felt was cured almost instantly when he joined the Minutemen. It was the most fulfilling, meaningful experience of his life. But when Eve left, the faults of the Minutemen became impossible to ignore, and his own convictions were put at odds with his new home.

Sturgeon's hands traced the scar surrounding his throat. He shuddered. _I have to leave. Just for now. I can't be here. Tora will cover for me…maybe. It doesn't matter, I just can't be here right now._

He went to the sink and splashed water on his face. The General's speech could be heard coming from the other room.

"…attacking our caravans. Some of these radicals have been identified and eliminated by our honorable Yao Guai division. Other figures…"

 _You can come back. Just leave today, get your head together, focus on this printing press thing. You still need to find some of those parts._

…Hoffman, Mikhail Berkman, Emma King, and Anita Castro. Alone we are nothing, but together we will crush these…"

The speech faded out, becoming incomprehensible, as Sturgeon became lightheaded. He stumbled out into the castle grounds, every sound was unbearable, he wanted silence more than anything as though it would instantly alleviate him. His legs felt weak and he broke out in a cold sweat. The world spun around him. Colors became blurry while the noise of people around the castle dissolved into a cacophony. Then everything went dark. A distant yell from somewhere he couldn't make out was the last thing he heard as he fell unconscious.

He awoke confused. It appeared he was in a dark room somewhere. Everything was filthy and the paint was peeling off the walls like they'd been rotting for years. A presence was close, but he couldn't make out what it was or where it was coming from. He suddenly knew he was being watched. The hairs on the back of his neck rose and his heart sped up. In the middle of the room, something emerged. His barely lucid mind struggled to comprehend what stood before it. Sturgeon's eyes widened and his mouth fell agape as he inhaled sharply. In front of him was a towering black figure made of flickering shadows that mimicked flames. Around fifteen feet tall, lanky and slouched, eyes like round orbs filled with smoke were on each side of its head. Protruding downward from its face was a long, snout-like appendage, almost like an elephant's trunk but completely black. Milky, grey smoke carelessly flowed upwards from the 'mouth' at the end of its snout and up to the top of its head where two long black horns curved forward. Two elongated arms hung from the beast's torso to the floor, with hands like a human's but stretched, each finger alternatingly red or black in color, wispy, ethereal and constantly bouncing from the influence of some invisible breeze. It rested atop animal like hind legs, not made of shadows like the rest of it, but black, wrinkly skin, with injured feet wrapped in tattered, aged bandages. The beast made a noise like a deep, prolonged croaking. The sound vibrated the inside of Sturgeon's skull. With its gaze came an unbearable sense of dread and dysphoria. It walked forward, its attention fixed on him. Each step it took was alien and unnatural, as though painful for the creature. It raised its arms slowly, its hands reaching outward at level with his horrified stare. He was completely paralyzed, from fear or some other influence, he didn't know. Its hands outstretched, inches away from his face, it felt like all of his sanity was being pulled from his body. Just as he felt himself slipping away, he woke up screaming in terror.


	11. Chapter 11

Sturgeon's eyes darted around the unlit room. Empty beds lined up in rows against stone walls letting him know he was in the castle – probably the medical wing. The darkness made him uneasy after his startled awakening. The nightmares…they were a familiar burden by now, but that did nothing to make them less horrid. Each time he awoke, panicked by an encounter with some twisted beast or hellscape, the world creeped back into focus and the immediate worries of the otherworld left his mind, though not without leaving their mark on him. Every nightmare seemed like a return to some episodic world; frightening yet familiar. However disconnected the dreams appeared on the surface, he always awoke with the sense they were continuing where they'd left off.

Shouting in the distance caught his attention. From where he was he couldn't make anything out. He arose from his small, uncomfortable bed. There were no doctors, nurses, or patients in sight. In a dazed stroll he wandered through the hallways, out towards the yelling.

' _Coming from the courtyard…'_ Sturgeon thought. The yells weren't panicked so it was unlikely they were under attack. _No, they don't sound afraid. They sound angry._

His stomach dropped in anticipation. The sound of a laser musket going off made him jump. More shots followed. Sturgeon pressed himself against the wall as he sidled towards the passageway leading to the courtyard. The darkness of the path indicated night had come while he slept. Flashes of red splashed across the hallway causing him to squint. Peering around the corner he saw them. A crowd of at least a dozen soldiers gathered around a man in tattered clothes – a ghoul. He was huddled over while members of the crowd took swipes at him, kicking him in the ribs or punching the back of his head. Through angered yells, soldiers fired their rifles into the air, their laser rounds flashing around the courtyard.

Sturgeon walked into the open air. He couldn't move. He couldn't react. His entire body was shutting down. All he could do was watch.

At the front of the crowd, staring down at the ghoul was Daniel Parson, his red hair looked as though it were ablaze each time a shot from a laser musket went off. His eyes were wide with fury, his mouth twisted into a maniacal grin. He was in an almost euphoric, drunken rage. He plunged his boot into the ghoul's face with a delighted squeal. The crowd cheered and spat on the ghoul.

"Fucking kill 'em!" Emily Burke's voice shouted from somewhere in the crowd. A shout of agreement went over the mob.

Gaining some control back, Sturgeon looked across the courtyard and saw Sergeant Marcos watching from the distance, his arms folded. He did nothing to intervene.

Someone's touch on his arm shook him out of it. It was Tora.

"You're awake. What happened?"

Sturgeon looked at her. He swallowed quickly and blinked, trying to make up an excuse. "I-I passed out, I think…too much chain-smoking, I guess." "What's going on?"

"He's GLF," she looked over at the mob. One of our guys caught him out on patrol."

"How do they know he's—"

BANG

The shot rang out before he could finish his question. The crowd roared. They continued to beat on the ghoul but his body had gone limp. Each person took turns striking his corpse until the crowd gradually dispersed. Sturgeon and Tora watched in silence. Eventually only the ghouls bloodied, beaten body remained.

For a moment Tora looked over at Stu. She eyed him, her face shifting in a way unfamiliar to her seemingly ignorant personality.

"Tell Marcos I took off for the weekend," Stu mumbled to her. He went off to the barracks to collect his things.


	12. Chapter 12

The Mister Handy model came out before the war to serve as a sort of domestic caretaker. They were the ideal home attendant; polite, obedient, loyal - at least most of them. Whitechapel Charlie didn't quite fit that description. The robot was a sarcastic, mouthy, caricature of a working-class, pre-war Brit. A bowler hat was perched atop his metal frame, and a faded Union Jack sticker was lopsidedly slapped on the side of his hull. Several mechanical arms multi-tasked around his body as he efficiently tended bar, effortless and precise they each appeared to act with autonomy. One of his metal appendages made a faint drilling sound as it spun a hand-towel inside a drinking glass to clean it, while another twisted the top off of a whiskey bottle, and yet another scooped some ice from a bucket under the counter and poured it into the newly cleaned glass. "Order up, love," Charlie said in his deep cockney accent. He poured the drink, placed it on the counter in front of Eveline and glided away on the small rocket thruster that propelled him from beneath his chassis.

Eveline took her drink wordlessly, dropped a five cap tip on the counter, and walked to her familiar booth. She always wondered who designed a Mister Handy to be like Whitechapel Charlie. He was rough around the edges to say the least, likely doing more to drive customers away than keep them coming. He rarely troubled her, but she'd seen him lose his patience with more than a few customers in the past. Maybe he liked that she didn't talk much. He seemed the type to like efficiency.

 _Duh, that's the whole point of a robot._

Her mind moved on to other things as she sat down at her usual booth. She kept thinking back to that day in the city, when she was nearly killed by raiders. _Berkman_. That ghoul. His name branded into her thoughts as though burned there with a hot pike. He probably saved her life. But how was he in just the right place at just the right time? Was he like her? Living alone in the wreckage of some pre-war apartment, just trying to escape the jurisdiction of the Minutemen? Why would he be staying in a place right across from a raider homestead? Was he just a scavver who wandered into the middle of their firefight? Nothing about it added up.

She thought about their encounter several times since it happened, and each time she felt a whirlwind of different emotions, any particular one hard to pick out from the storm to decipher. To some degree he was comforting. It was reassuring to see a ghoul so confident, independent, and seemingly unaffected by the same burden she felt since being ghoulified. Daisy seemed content, but she was low-key, a boring fixture of Goodneighbor; not someone who fought raiders and rescued travelers out in the ruins. To Eveline, Berkman felt like everything she couldn't be since becoming a ghoul. To some extent she felt envy. On another level: guilt for not being as strong as him. She was weak, lying in bed in tears, bemoaning her life since changing, huffing jet to get through the harder days. Even now, she was drinking to numb some of the daily pain.

Dwelling on her self-pity only gave rise to the same sinking sensation that clouded her. She felt herself being drawn in when she suddenly remembered what he said to her: "It gets easier." She meditated on that phrase for awhile, recalling the hardest times, how they dwindled, how living and moving on became more possible with each new day. The gap between the hardest times undoubtedly grew. Through so much, she still persevered. She was still here.

 _But just being alive isn't enough…_

Just then there was a stirring upstairs. A large group had just entered from the street level, chattering loudly while making their way down the busted escalator stairs into the bar room. Eve turned her head and saw Hancock, surrounded by a crowd of Neighborhood Watch militia members.

Hancock was the self-described mayor of Goodneighbor and most people just rolled with it. He had enough public favor to hold the position without complaints, though it entailed little in ways of privileges. Mostly Hancock was at the helm of a militant committee of volunteers bound together by a shared desire to protect the community. There was nothing honoring him to the position other than the fact that his continued success as a leader left the public content with his role. He commanded the Neighborhood Watch, but that role was granted voluntarily. The Neighborhood Watch existed more out of the communal need for self-protection and as a self-organized means of managing conflict de-escalation when the need arose. The militia members who served as Hancock's guard did so more out of loyalty and respect than a mandatory responsibility. If they ceased to fulfill their responsibilities, there would be no official punishment. Abuse of power, however, was often met with swift punishment. It wasn't the tidiest of systems, but it functioned pretty well.

Eve had only seen Hancock in passing on several occasions, but he was a difficult ghoul to forget. His presence was dominating and attention drawing, helped even more by his unique choice of clothing; a revolutionary war era, deep red, long-coat, with a sash made from an old world flag. The finishing touch of his bizarre getup was an oversized tricorn hat, worn-out from long before he claimed it for himself. Even if not for the attire, Hancock was someone you remembered. His voice was somehow smooth and raspy at the same time. Rough like most ghouls, but proceeded with what many interpreted as authentic compassion. Turning into a ghoul did nothing to dwindle his charm.

In tow, also followed by several armed companions, someone else walked with Hancock; another ghoul, but a woman. Her face was stern, with a challenging stare one would hate to be on the receiving end of. She wore olive and brown camouflaged, military fatigues with a dark green beret atop her bald head. A tiny pair of spectacles, slightly too small for her head, rested on the bridge–the only remaining part-of her nose. Eve assumed they were a tight fit so they could adjust for the lack of cartilage left on her ears. The woman's guards, also ghouls, wore the same uniform but walked with assault rifles slung over their shoulders.

The ghoul woman whispered something inaudible to Hancock. He nodded and slapped a hand on her back in response.

"Charlie!" He gestured towards the Mister Handy. A drink for our friends! Break out your finest rotgut!"

Whitechapel Charlie floated towards the edge of the bar to get into Hancock's line of sight. "Oi, you want the finest? Try the bar in Diamond City. I got your piss and your watered down piss. Which do our friends prefer?" His mechanical arms spun around his lower chassis so that his serving arms were front-and-center.

"Ayy easy with the sass in front of our guests, Charlie. They're new to Goodneighbor; we gotta make a good first impression, make 'em feel welcome!" Hancock approached the bar, sat down at the stool in front of the robot, and gave him a smile. "These good folks are here all the way from the glowing sea. If anybody needs a drink, it's them."

The woman and her guard didn't speak as they pulled up the rear. The guards stood up while the woman, clearly of some authority, sat alongside Hancock. Eveline felt her presence from across the bar. Power radiated from her, not just confidence, but purpose. There is a comfort in fulfilling a duty, being where you know you ought to be, doing what you think you ought to do. She had that.

And she made it look good.

Whitechapel Charlie dropped a glass of some liquor in front of Hancock and went to do the same for the ghoul woman, but she raised her hand to stop him.

"I don't drink anything prepared for me. I brought my own water. It's not personal, you understand."

She spoke with a tone that left little room for questioning; definitive and assertive.

"Suit yourself. Less work for me." Charlie floated away while the two made idle chitchat until the other patrons lost interest.

Eve was the only one who kept watching them. She was intrigued by that woman. She inspired those same feelings Berkman did. That same radiating strength clung to the air around her like invisible wires hoisting her high above the room. She kept her head down and did her best to listen in on their conversation.

"I know we can't go into much detail here, but you need to consider what we talked about." The woman spoke in a lowered voice so as not to divulge too much information, but Eve could just barely hear her.

"Look, sister, comrade - whatever you folks go by, I support your struggle. I stand with you against that pinheaded fuck Dulles…"

"'But…'" she anticipated his words.

"You know why I can't. I have people here that need a safe-haven from all this shit. If the Minutemen find out we're supplying foot soldiers and guerilla fighters, we risk losing all of that. I can't do that to these people." Hancock spoke with remorse in his voice; the kind that sounded rehearsed.

The words bounced off of the female ghoul, clearly expected. "Hancock, I know you have a duty to your people, and that's exactly why we need you to help us. We know the urgent need to take in refugees, believe that - we're doing everything we can to accommodate the people relocating to the glowing sea ourselves. But you of all people should know how men like Dulles work. It only takes one outrage, one drama, one scare, and their boots will be outside your door." She tapped her fingers on the bar for emphasis but took care to keep her voice low.

"Believe it or not, _Anita_ , I'm not an idiot." Hancock emphasized her name when he spoke, subtly mocking her for her attempt to appeal to him personally. If she noticed, she didn't show it. "This job ain't just about giving speeches and kissing babies. Now I let you into my little town, and I know Osha will no doubt hear about it, but I don't lay my cards on the table without a plan. We've got some channels open with the Confederation, and they're going to bring this up, and we're going to let them know just what's up. Any move made on Goodneighbor will force our hand and we'll have no choice but to support the GLF." He stopped and scanned her face for a response. "I'm sorry, but the truth is, not supporting you is the only thing that _does_ keep us safe."

He got his reaction. Anita's face flashed with some of the first emotion Eve had seen. Anger. She did her best to contain herself, but her frustration was visible. "Why do you think the Commons are in Osha's sights? It opens up trade routes with the southern Commonwealth, and gives him an excuse to snatch up all the surrounding territory. You'll have a choice in the end. You and your people live in an apartheid state as Osha gradually takes Goodneighbor for himself, or you act now to pierce the heart of this beast before it's talons sink into everything. Your refugees live on borrowed time. We can relocate the ghouls to the glowing sea. The synths and the humans can resettle in Confederated territory without much fuss."

Hancock sneered. "The synths? Are you shitting me? Osha will weed them out with that synth test of his and have them exterminated!"

"We can only afford to help our own right now. The synths are welcome to save themselves, and if they extend a hand we wil-"

"I've heard enough. There will be no military support. We'll keep diplomatic windows open, even take in refugees, but weapons and soldiers stay here. On my streets. Keeping my people safe."

Anita rose from her seat. "Then we have nothing more to talk about. I regret your decision, but I hold out hope that you'll change your mind." She flashed a glance at her guards. They nodded and got to her side. "We'll stay in touch, John."

"I hope you do, Ms. Castro." Hancock tipped his hat and smiled. "And I hope to see you and your friends again soon. Stay safe out there."


	13. Chapter 13

It was nearly 1 a.m. and Eve was still sitting alone in her booth. For the first time she seemed to notice how torn apart the leather of the seats were. They were shredded from years of use, and there was no way the seats were the same color now as when they were first produced. The table wasn't much to look at either; chipped and riddled with fractured bits of wood, barely providing enough of a flat surface to keep her glass steady. From where she sat, the neon lights that adorned the stage and the bar area only faintly graced her. This was the same corner she always sat, the one that felt right. Only now did she realize how ugly it was. She eyed White Chapel Charlie for awhile, then looked back at her drink.

"Fuck it," she mumbled and approached the counter. The robot's sensors eyed her as she sat in front of him.

"Eveline, right? One of my better customers. Don't cause a fuss, doesn't start any fights, tips fair. What can I do for ya, dear?"

She was taken aback for a moment by Charlie's uncharacteristic kindness, but the liquor combined with her own curiosity pushed her forward. "Who was that woman Hancock was talking to? Anita something or other. She must be pretty important to have personal guards and an audience with the mayor."

"Anita Castro?" he let out a sigh; strange to hear from a robot. "I guess there's no reason not to spill the beans. Fact is, they wouldn't have met here if they _didn't_ want people to notice. Ms. Castro is with the GLF, those ghoul insurgents that operate around the glowing sea. They're in other places too; apparently in the city from the sound of it. I don't know exactly what she does for 'em, but she pulls a lot of weight politically."

"GLF…" Eve mumbled. She hadn't heard from them in her time as a Minuteman, but the name had been floating around more and more. Ghoul Liberation Front. It was difficult to get a sense of what they fought for. Some people said they were supremacists who viewed humans as inferior. Others said they were just opposed to the Minutemen, an anti-government organization more than anything, but mostly composed of ghouls because of their obvious disadvantage under the current order. They were a young organization, she presumed, seemingly rising to prominence after she left the Minutemen.

"You said they were in the city? Where?" Eve asked.

"Can't say, probably wouldn't tell ya even if I knew. A lady walks into your bar with machine gun carrying bodyguards, it's not in your best interest to stick your nose in her business…oi, isn't that your friend?"

Eve turned around and saw Sturgeon stumbling into the bar. Bag hoisted over his shoulder, hood barely clinging to the back of his head, he walked a shaky line towards the booth she had just left. He bumped into the table, nearly spilling her idle drink as he grabbed at the edges to balance himself. After a struggle, he twisted his body around and lined himself up with the booth. With a grunt he fell backwards into the seat and lay there motionless.

"Make sure he doesn't cause any trouble, would ya?" Charlie said annoyed before drifting off.

Eve approached Sturgeon, her mouth twisted in a ball, eyebrows raised, and her neck craned to see him from under the table. "Stu? What the fuck happened?"

"Evy…" he grumbled without moving. "Fuck this shit, man. Just…fuck it, you know?"

"Uh, yeah, I know. Fuck it…What are you on right now?"

Stu gave another groan and rolled over, his face digging into the dirty seat cushion. He spoke in fractured sentences, but enough to make some sense. "I don't…like…I took med-x…nerves, jet to keep me…to go…the jet not so good, I think."

Eve sighed and slid into the seat across from him. "Or the med-x is really strong. How much did you take, Stu? I've never seen you this out of it."

He didn't answer. Sturgeon had become focused with trying to sit up straight, fumbling to hoist himself up and failing miserably.

Not knowing what else to do, Eve helped him up, threw his arm over her neck, and struggled to carry him. There was no way she could drag him all the way back to the Commons, so she took him down the block to the Hotel Rexford to rent a room. Halfway down the block he started speaking somewhat intelligible again.

"Evy, I can't…"

"You can't what, buddy?"

"I can't…anything. I don't know where to go. I don't know. I can't go home…west."

"You don't have to go anywhere, Stu. We're going to get you a room to sleep this shit off, roll you on your side so you don't choke on your puke, and tomorrow morning I'm gonna get you some fixer to ease the comedown."

"Eveline," he slurred out, pulling away from her. "Stop." He managed to stand up straight by steadying himself against the wall of the hotel. The red light's that spelled _Hotel Rexford_ cast a haunting glow over him. In the red neon light he looked tormented, his face twisted into an expression of intense pain. He looked at her, his eyes droopy and undercut by deep, dark bags. He was doing his best to look serious, but the drugs and whatever was on his mind made him look helpless.

Eve tried to help him walk again but he waved his arm at her. "What?" she asked. "We're here. I'll pay for the room, don't worry about it—"

"No." he interrupted. "Eve, I'm fucked…I'm so fucked." His hand went to his throat and he clumsily traced his scar, his breathing accelerating. He spoke a little more clearly now. "I don't want to be alone. I'm so fucking scared, Evy. But I don't know where to go."

Eve stared at him, suddenly concerned. "What are you talking about, Sturgeon?"

Doing his best to sober up, Stu dragged his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes. "If I go back, I'm dead. They'll do it again, they'll recognize me. They'll slap another of those—" his voice cracked as he tried to utter out the words. "Those fucking collars, Evy. They dig into your throat, they hurt you when you breathe, and they…they…" He fell forward but Eve caught him. His head landed on her shoulder and he let out a helpless whimper.

"Collars…Stu? What are you—" Eve stopped mid-sentence. Her chest suddenly felt tight. She knew what he was talking about. Her stomach went cold as the whole world seemed to zoom out.

"No…" she whispered. She stood there, unable to move.

Stu cried quietly into her neck until she regained herself enough to wrap her arms around him. His back heaved as he clung to her desperately. Still incapable of words, she did all she could do, holding him while he wept.


	14. Chapter 14

***Chapter contains brief mentions of sexual violence***

They spoke for hours the next morning. He told her everything. How he was captured by Caesar's Legion at 10, enslaved for the entirety of his teens. Eve could hardly listen to some of the stories. It churned her stomach. The things he was made to do, the way he was treated. Sturgeon struggled to describe the depths of dehumanization that slavery embedded in him, but it's near impossible to articulate the total abandonment of the self, the learned insignificance of being property. Becoming another fixture in someone's home makes abuse; emotional, physical, and sexual all just seem so normal. By the time he was 13, he was a shell, knowing himself only as an object to be used however his owners wished.

His first moment of adolescent "freedom" ironically came when he was expropriated by the state for the war effort in the Mojave. Rather than be a meat shield for his Decanus, he went AWOL, aimlessly running east without money, food, water, direction, and completely void of identity. There was no sense of salvation or liberation; he was without any of that for too long to even understand it. The only thing that made him flee was a deep instinctual desire to survive, the last inkling of individuality that remained in him. Hoover Dam would be his grave, he could grasp that much, so he ran, emboldened only by his fear of death. He almost headed west, but fear that the NCR would execute him for his affiliation with the Legion sent him further into Legion territory. Until then he had no idea how far Caesar's reach extended.

He was found by a patrol while crossing the Colorado River. The decanus of the outpost wanted him crucified for abandonment, but his centurion stepped in, either out of mercy or perhaps out of vindictive desire to see his suffering prolonged. They slapped a slave collar on him, sentencing him to hard labor, and for good measure, they broke both of his ankles so he couldn't escape again. He tended a Legion outpost for seven years, treated worse than the hounds; shamed, vilified, tortured. For seven years he wore the same slave collar. To his horror, his body grew, even as his collar remained the same. The collar dug deeper and deeper into his neck, always crushing his wind pipe, making it hard to eat, to breathe, to speak, even turning his head was a painful reminder of his enslavement. The centurion said it would serve as a reminder of what happens to disloyal cowards.

In a bizarre twist of fate, his injury made him useless in combat and thus he was one of the few men not sent to the dam for the war against the NCR. When an insurgency led by Vegas nationalists booted Kimball's NCR from Nevada and pushed the Legion back over the Colorado, he was sent back with them, but by then the Legion was existing on borrowed time. Shortly after Caesar's death, the Legion collapsed. Infighting and lack of direction destabilized the once rigid military structure and soon splintering factions devolved into warring tribes. Many reverted back to their previous tribal identities, while some attempted in vain to carry on an ideology that died with Caesar. In the aftermath, abandonment became commonplace and the Legion withered away to feuding warlords too distracted to keep track of slave ledgers. He ran again; as far east as he could, fearing that Caesar's reach somehow survived, extending all the way to the ocean. If it came to that, he resolved to wander the coast until he found a ship-or throw himself into the Atlantic. Thankfully, a run-in with the Midwestern Brotherhood of Steel revealed that Boston and D.C. were far away from Legion control. So he continued his march east, always feeling someone's breath on the back of his neck. He traversed entire states, checking over his shoulder the entire way, anticipating the return of the vexillarius, red flag with a golden bull hoisted high, closing in with a Legion unit in tow. Never free from that fear, he had nightmares of waking up to a centurion machete at his throat, his old collar ready for him.

Sturgeon's hands traced his neck as he told his story. Sometimes it felt like the collar was still there, constricting him.

He was 21 by the time he reached Boston, peering the skyline through a pair of bloodshot eyes, fuzzy from an endless stream of jet and alcohol—the only things that provided any relief in the time since his escape. Freedom carries with it an unspeakable horror, particularly to someone who has lived an entire life by someone else's will. Stumbling through the city, he did what most travelers did to stay alive, he prospected (or scavving as they called it on the east coast); all the while staying inebriated enough to keep the memories at bay. After a year of near-overdoses and just enough salvaged meals to not starve, he found the Minutemen, joined, and experienced his first sense of purpose. It was a struggle-not the sobriety; that all fell into place after the physical withdrawal wore off, alleviated by fixer and addictol courtesy of military doctors. But learning to be normal, learning to act like a free person while in the employ of someone else, was something no doctor could help him through. At first, he worked until his hands ached and his feet blistered, only knowing endless labor as an acceptable standard. When his first commander extended a reach to him, he flinched with his entire body, clamping his eyes shut in fear. When he was met with a reaffirming pat on the back instead of a beating, he felt himself become awash with confusing emotions: embarrassment, shame, distrust, even anger. It would take awhile before he could react any other way to human contact.

But in time he learned.

It was in the blossoming Confederation settlement of Sanctuary Hills where he first experienced the vulnerability that came with intimacy. For the first time he experienced the pleasure of consensual sex, his first experience of sharing his soul with another person, feeling something he could call sincere affection. He began to experience some semblance of normalcy, the privilege of not being endlessly scrutinized or reprimanded gave him the ability to learn what kind of person he really was. He gradually took chances, sometimes slacking off, knowing it wouldn't mean ruthless beatings or forced isolation for days. He was allowed to be a human again. Eventually, he coped, adapted, and even came to enjoy autonomy.

The Minutemen gave him the confidence, the sense of purpose, the pride, and the home he needed after being nothing for so long. They gave him everything. If not for the Minutemen, he'd likely have died somewhere outside Diamond City, overdosed on chems or shot dead by raiders.

Eve listened as he poured years and years of secrets out before her. It was unreal, like he was reading a manuscript, telling someone else's story. She struggled to understand how someone could experience a life so turbulent, so filled with suffering. Living in Diamond City, of course you hear stories about people struggling in the wasteland, but seeing how close it all was shocked her.

When Sturgeon finally stopped talking, he couldn't look at her. His gaze shifted downward, afraid to look into her eyes. He felt small, like a child explaining themselves to a grown-up.

For awhile they sat in the run-down motel room without speaking. A raw vulnerability filled Sturgeon in the accompanying silence. When he finished telling her everything, Eveline didn't say anything. At first, it was because she didn't know what _to_ say. But now it was something different. Something about his words resonated deeply with her. That weakness, that isolation, that complete lack of belonging, falling with nothing to grab onto, nothing to catch him-it felt so familiar. She didn't notice the tears start to descend her cheeks. She sniffled, causing Sturgeon to look up at her. He knew immediately why she was crying. He hesitated. He wanted to approach her, to comfort her, but it felt wrong, like he was the wrong person to do it. But he was all she had. Awkwardly, he extended what he could. She accepted his embrace. He wasn't all she needed, she knew that, but she needed something. He held her against him, one hand rubbing her back, the other cradling her head. She cried quietly, expressing her pain to him without words.

As though he could hear her, he said softly, "I know."

She wheezed and sniffed in response, collapsing entirely, her face covered with tears and snot as she cried as he had cried the night before. Everything poured out of her at once. She let herself become helpless, abandoning any shame or pride.

"I know," he repeated.

They stayed that way until she was finished. Eve sniffled loudly again and looked around. The room was poorly lit, the wood on the wall and floor was rotting, and its only furnishing was a dirty mattress, a lopsided dresser, and a chair that looked like it would fall apart if it was sat in. From the corner of her eye she caught something on the dresser: a flier for Vault-Tec vaults. The picture was worn but she could make out that it once depicted several happy families, dressed in typical 1950s attire, smiling and cheery faced as they entered one of Vault-Tec's massive underground bomb shelters. Now most of it was gone, but she could barely make out the grime covered image of a woman, her face mostly stained over with dirt. Many of the other vault dwellers were eroded and impossible to make out, but the words at the top of the pamphlet remained clear enough to read: 'A better life! A better future! Reserve your place today!"


	15. Chapter 15

"Alright, pull the lever and let's see what happens!" Eveline yelled as she backed out from under the conveyor belt of the M.I.T. printing press.

"WHAT!?" shouted back Sturgeon over the hum of the fusion generator.

"I said pull the lever!"

"Purple leather!?"

"Purpl-What the fuck? Stu, we've been trying to turn this thing on for 20 minutes, do you seriously not know what I'm saying!?"

He approached from behind her, swatting his dust-covered hands against his pants and smiling sheepishly while looking at his feet. "I heard you the first time, Evy, I'm just nervous. My heart is pounding like a fucking base drum over here!"

"Come on, we'll pull it together." Eve lifted herself to her feet and slapped her hands together in anticipation. She was excited—they both were.

"Ready?" Eve grabbed the rusted steel lever and looked at him.

Stu nodded with a nervous smile.

With a single pull, the lever made a satisfying **clunk** and, sure enough, the network of interconnecting machinery whirred to life. Chains and belts spun and moved into their proper places as mechanical instruments awoke from an over 200 year old slumber. Sturgeon's head and shoulders lifted as he watched the machine precisely cut and fold large sheets of paper. It was a satisfying sight on its own, but their sense of accomplishment only made it that much greater. Sturgeon felt a massive weight leave his shoulders. His troubled heart got some comfort, and the nagging guilt that followed him for so long was quieted, if only for a few moments.

Eve smiled at first at the machine, then her friend. Sturgeon's eyes were filled with light, he was like an awed child in the shadow of the revitalized printing press. Eve slapped a hand on his back. They shared a glance and a disbelieving laugh escaped their lungs at the same time. They'd really done it.

The first few sheets of blank paper fired out of a chute at the end of the steel assembling line, folded several times into a stack of bundled papers. They looked just like the old Boston Bugles that littered the ruins of the city. They stared at the papers wide-eyed, then back at each other, mouths curled into child-like grins, their minds perfectly in sync.

With a bright smile, Sturgeon slammed the machine's stop button. An alarm roared, bells rang, and the assembly process came to a halt.

They just stood there.

"We did it," Sturgeon finally whispered.

"We did," Eve replied quietly.

They laughed again and embraced each other. Stu gave her a hard squeeze and closed his eyes tightly. There was so much expressed in that shared moment, things that words couldn't describe, but their bodies perfectly communicated what they both were thinking.

When they broke apart Eve looked at him with raised eyebrows and an endearing smirk, "So when are you going to tell Piper? She'll lose her mind when she sees this setup!"

"I don't know! Honestly, I had no idea if this would even work. I—I'm—I don't know what to say!"

"To tell you the truth, I got the impression she wasn't that into you before, but after this, she's going to swoon!"

Stu laughed. "That's not why I did this, but that _does_ sound pretty nice! I guess I should head back to Goodneighbor and see if I can find her. I doubt we'll have anything to print today, but can you grab some of the extra ink cartridges from your place? We should probably test if they're working properly."

"You got it. So are you going to keep it a secret? I mean, it's hard to convince some girl to follow a dude out to one of the most avoided places this side of the glowing sea without telling her what's up." Eve lifted herself up onto one of the conveyor belts so she could get a good overlook of the printing press.

 _What a sight!_ She smiled again to herself.

"I'll think of something," Sturgeon answered, rounding up his things and hoisting them onto his back. "Maybe there's a big story out here. Piper may not be writing but she's got those reporter's instincts. She won't be able to help herself."

"Go get her, lover boy. I'll meet you back here." Eve smiled at him. They were on something of a high from their accomplishment. For Sturgeon, his heart was a little less heavy. For Eveline, it felt like she was a part of something again. They left through the university lobby with their spirits lifted; grievances forgotten and demons appeased, a fresh achievement gave a sign of something big coming; maybe something that could save them both.

 **End of Part I**

 **The first chapter of Part II will be posted tomorrow. Stay tuned.**


	16. Chapter 16

**I'm a big fat liar.**

 **Here's Part II**

Salt water and the fishy scent of mirelurk carried downwind, reaching the hilltop overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. For a travel weary wastelander, it seemed perfect. The sea was as beautiful as before the war; the rhythmic crash of the waves against the Boston shoreline the closest thing resembling calm in the Commonwealth.

A young man, clean shaven, with a buzz cut, plaid shirt, and worn beige pants breathed the salty ocean air into his lungs. He took a moment to appreciate his surroundings, letting the sights and smells bring back a cache of memories from a childhood in post-war Boston.

 _This is why you do this. For this soil. For these people._ His lie was so convincing, he almost believed it.

The young man made hisway down a steep ocean side cliff, carefully trudging through the sand. He held his rusted rifle, fashioned from old pipes and scavenged weapons parts, over his head with both hands as he made his way toward the shore. Below the cliff, he found what he'd traveled so far for, a path to a small pier leading to a creaky wooden shack out of view from the rest of the beach; impossible to notice unless you were looking for it. The sound of waves hitting the rocks below the pier shadowed the noise of his footsteps as he approached the cabin. The young man raised his weapon to his shoulder and readied his trigger finger as he let himself in.

In an instant his nostrils were invaded by the powerful aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Someone was home. Conscious of every creak of the floorboards, he made his way down a short hallway into a minimally furnished living room. A single cushioned chair, a coffee table covered with scribbled on papers and old books, and a lantern next to a ham radio on a smaller wooden table in the corner were the only furnishing to speak of. Next to the table was a doorway leading to a tucked away kitchen. The sun managed to sneak its way into the concealed home by ways of a window overlooking the ocean in the middle of the wall. There were no picture frames, no clocks, no radios playing Diamond City or Minutemen broadcasts, and no couch for guests. It was the home of someone used to living a solitary existence in limbo.

"I'll be right out!" someone yelled from the kitchen, causing the young man to jump. He tensed and jerked his rifle towards the voice.

Practically waddling, an older man entered the room, hunched and small in frame, casually holding a coffee mug and barely keeping a hold on the thick hard cover book tucked under his arm.

"Make yourself comfortable. There's just the one chair I'm afraid, but I can stand for now."

He stopped to take a look at the young man, squinting. Craning his head forward, he crinkled his eyebrows curiously. He frowned under his thick greying mustache and scratched the thick tuft of hair covering his chin with the back of his wrist.

"I don't have my glasses on but I'm pretty sure I don't recognize your face. You must be one of the new ones. I always made it a point to remember all the young recruits' faces."

The young man didn't say anything. His rifle still raised, his eyes darted around the room, from the older man, to the doorways and windows, then back. He adjusted his grip on his rifle, feeling the sweat of his palms loosen his grasp.

The older man ignored the jumpy gunman. He casually hobbled to his chair and sat down, resting his book on the table and sitting back with his coffee.

"Well, if you won't sit..." he started.

"Leon Malchenko?" the young man blurted out at last. He was visibly nervous, feet shifting, eyes wandering, suspended like he was speaking to someone who shouldn't be there; a ghost who's existence beyond stories was unthinkable.

"Obviously!" the older man responded with a chuckle. "So you want to sit then?" he moved to rise from his chair.

"I'll stand, thanks."

"Fine then…"

The older man sunk back into his seat and let out a sigh followed by an exasperated laugh, "I'm surprised Osha sent someone so young. I guess he knows I'm too old to put up much of a fight. Hell, just getting out to this cabin was a trek."

"How long?" the young man couldn't help but ask. "How long have you been here?"

"At least a few days. It cost me every cap I had left to find mercs willing to escort me out here. You're hard pressed to find any independent guns that will run the risk of operating in the north. It's not like I could hire Gunners like in the old days." The old man's voice was calm. The fire that everyone saw or felt from him in his speeches and broadcasts had since dwindled to a gentle flicker.

"Those mercs got stopped east of Diamond City. They tried to sneak past a patrol route but were spotted by city security." The young man attempted to project authority in his response, but his nerves were betraying him. His voice shook and his forehead was becoming damp with sweat.

"And to think I left my life in their hands," the old man smiled. He took a sip of his coffee. "I've been moving around for a while. Someone was bound to slip up eventually, right?" He paused for a moment. "Where were you posted before this?" he asked.

"Zimonja."

"Division 11," the old man smiled again, "The Rad Storms."

"Yes."

"How long have you been a Yao Guai?"

"One month."

"One month!" the old man repeated impressed. "You must be proud."

Malchenko without his flame was an entirely different man than the persona that existed in the young man's head. The man before him was gentle. There was no rushing, no urgency. In that small ocean side living room, the old man had all the time in the world and nowhere else to be.

The young man's expression darkened. He lowered his rifle and looked at the older man, he opened his mouth hesitantly, weighing the value of putting his thought to words. After several seconds it came out, "I heard you on the radio all the time. When you spoke at Boston Airport after Melting Steel…it's what made me want to be a minuteman—" he caught himself before he could go on.

"Things can change so quickly can't they?" the old man mused thoughtfully. "I can't tell you how many hours I've spent wondering how we got here." He let out a cough into his free hand. "Well, I'm not really too surprised you're here. I asked the crew to radio me when they got back. I never heard a word from them." He coughed again and wiped his mouth on his arm.

The young man cocked an eyebrow.

"I figured Osha would find me soon enough, but what's an old man to do? I thought about running, but I can't make it far on my own out here." He took another sip from his mug. "Maybe I'd try shooting you as you walked in the door, but even if I killed you, he'd send someone else. I can't live like I did when I was a young minuteman—always moving, always another raider, mutant, or deranged mercenary firing just above your head." He coughed and shakily brought his mug up for another drink. "Anyway," he sighed, "I'm on my last cup of Nevada coyote coffee. This and rereading pre-war fiction are all that's been keeping me going."

Another cough escaped the old man's lungs, this time fiercer, like shards of glass were scraping his lungs and throat. "Broken Steel, Grave Digger, SAFE guard…I'm not interested in any of that now. What's done is done. And I can't think about it anymore."

The young man didn't say anything. For a moment he saw that flame he remembered from the man Malchenko was before. Even with what little that remained, it was enough to leave him in awe.

The old man took a deep, shaky breath and stared out the window at the ocean. He spoke, but not to the man standing over him. "I'm sorry. For whatever that's worth."

Again, he began coughing violently into his sleeve. He lurched forward and his mug fell to the floor, shattering. The young man took a step back. Suddenly, the old man's body seized up and he collapsed, wheezing and coughing uncontrollably. He looked at the young man and smiled one last time.

"Silver sting," he rasped out. "Another Nevada treasure." Leon Malchenko's eyes rolled into the back of his head as his fiery heart stopped beating.

The young man stood in the middle of the living room in shock. He looked over the old man's body silently for a few seconds, gave a nod, and walked back out into the Commonwealth.

On the shoreline, out over the Atlantic something barely visible floated over the waves; a black figure, horned, with a long black trunk, smoke rising from its long body, grey eyes watching closely. The young soldier stared out at the anomaly for what felt like an eternity. With a low rumbling noise, the beast raised one of its arms and gestured towards the way the soldier came; over the hill, back through the city limits. The soldier took a deep breath. He wanted to stay, just watch the waves a little longer. There was a boat under the dock. How far could it take him? Or the farm a few miles down by the sewage treatment plant. Would they take him there? He took another deep breath, savoring the air, remembering before things became so complicated. One more glance towards the ocean and he made his decision. He began walking.

Bubbling under the surface of Jamaica Plains is that same sickness that infected American suburbanites before the war. It circled the white picket fences and two story homes like a trickster god plotting mischief, looking to turn friends and neighbors against each other. Time makes some cosmetic changes, but the curse is much the same. The spirit was awakened in the new inhabitants of Jamaica Plains.

Two farmers stood outside a renovated pre-war home, watching with folded arms as a unit of Minutemen hoisted their navy blue flag from a telephone pole—one of several being hung all around the neighborhood.

"Not sure why they gotta hang them things up everywhere," one of the farmers said eyeing a flag displayed on the former shopfront across the street. "But I guess it keeps the raider types away…"

"I don't like it," muttered the other, putting her hands on her dirty overall-clad hips. "I don't know why we need these folks around at all. We cleared this land out on our own, and the raiders don't bother with us since we put together our patrols."

Down the street a Minuteman stood at attention, laser musket in his hands as he watched the inside of a corner home from its doorway. It was the home of two ghoul residents, inhabitants of Jamaica Plains since the founding of the settlement. Item by item, they brought whatever they could carry out to the sidewalk.

"Can't believe they're taking away those two," said the first farmer. He shook his head and took off his hat.

"What do you mean you didn't think they'd take them two?" The woman farmer said, confused. "They're ghouls ain't they?"

He shrugged his shoulders and looked back at her, "But they haven't done anything, it doesn't…"

"Well, they said they would kick them all out. Did you think it was a joke?"

"Nah, but it's not my fault."

"Pfft! You were pretty fond of those nonsense _Human Accords!_ You might as well have knocked on their door and told them to leave yourself. No difference between that and supporting someone who says they'll do it for you."

"Hey, now!" the man raised his voice and returned the other farmer's stare with an accusing gaze of his own. "I offered them one of my Brahmin for them to haul away their things, when I got the news. Know what they did? That ghoul fella spit on the ground! Could you believe that? Ungrateful is what they are, that's why they got booted. I don't hate ghouls! You know that! But them people who _really_ supported the Minutemen were fine with kicking out the ghouls because of that same shit! They have a goddamned attitude about everything! They resent us and act like people like me are bigots. Well, now people have had enough!"

The woman crossed her arms and turned away, watching Maria and Carlos haul their gear into their packs. "I never quite understood how a victim can be blamed for their allegedly shitty attitude, but people like you can get as mad as they like about whatever petty shit they choose and you're completely off the hook," she sneered.

"I ain't no ghoul-hater," grumbled the man. "Now let's quit all this talking, we've got to get to work expanding the field if we're going to meet the new quotas. The new farming equipment ought to make it quick. You gotta thank the Minutemen for that much."

The woman sighed. "Not really the Minutemen so much as that investor guy they brought in. Minutemen let him buy this land from under us and he gives us the equipment to cultivate it."

"So the Minutemen protect it for him. He just gives us some tools? Can't we just buy them from him?"

"I asked," the woman said, "5,000 caps for the hoes, rakes, plows, and to get ownership of the well he installed. Then we gotta buy back the land, plus pay the taxes on it."

"Fuck me, so we're just supposed to work for wages forever?"

"Till we can buy the farm land."

"We already had the land! Didn't we all share this land just fine before all this shit?"

"But the Minutemen protect the land."

"Yeah, not some fucking deep pocketed Brahmin trader! Why does he get to claim the land? We do all the damned work! And he gets to take everything we make cuz he claimed some tools? How the fuck is that supposed to work?" The man was angry now. He looked over as the two ghouls finally finished packing their things. They took down the road, heavy bags full of food, water, and cooking supplies rattling behind them.

He exploded with rage. "Fuck them fucking zombies!" the man growled angrily. "Maybe people like you are too sensitive to say it, but I ain't afraid! Fuck them feral, disease carrying scum! Minutemen and whoever pays 'em can do what they want if they get them out of here! I wake up early every day, I work, I slave. They eat the irradiated fruits and don't get sick, they drink the water from the river and they aren't huddled over in pain the next day. What do I get? I get shit. I get more work! I get blisters on my hands and hemorrhoids on my ass!"

"You get to not be shot by Minutemen…"

"Bah! The Minutemen only shoot terrorists. Maybe if they did something to stop the ghouls joining GLF in their social circles, we wouldn't have to boot them! Good riddance!" The man threw his hand up and scowled. "I've got work enough for the next week. I don't have time to worry about them zombies!" He stormed off into the house to retrieve his farming tools.

The woman remained quiet. She watched as the two ghouls gradually disappeared in the distance.

 _Maybe if I'd said something sooner. Maybe if we'd been more aggressive about keeping the Minutemen away. Maybe if we didn't let them preach in our town._

She couldn't help but wonder what she could have done differently, but it was too late to do anything now. She would work more, earn less, struggle harder, but she still had her home and her safety. The two ghouls exiled to the wasteland had nothing, and to some extent she knew she was responsible.


	17. Chapter 17

_Now what?_

The thought nagged at Eveline all the way back home, like a street sign flashing on and off in growing intensity.

 _Can't I just enjoy this for now?_ She groaned to herself. Already the sense of satisfaction she felt from getting the press up and running was wearing off. Just a few blocks through the city and that question went from a whisper to a shout. _Now what?_

She never had any inclination towards journalism, nor was she particularly thrilled about any sort of distributive work. There was some comfort in the prospect of routine, however mundane it may be, but still, the thought of being a papergirl didn't do very much for her. However cathartic it was to let herself collapse in the Hotel Rexford, to flip herself inside out and empty all of her emotions into her palms tear by tear, catharsis is not enough. What could she do? She was still disgusting, still keeping her face down when she walked by people, still shutting herself away for days at a time, still stirring in her own helplessness with a perverse sense of relief. Fleeting excitement with her friend, over the new project, over whatever the order of the day was; the happiness was so dulled, its sharpness turned down into dim, unexciting colors. And the energy it all demanded! Why was even the slightest activity so exhausting? Yes, she'd finished their project, yes, she'd cried all the tears she could muster, but the relief was so temporary.

 _Now what?_

The question was no longer a question, but a mocking voice that laughed at her for her stupidity. _You thought that was it_? _You thought you'd duct tape some scrap together and all of your problems would disappear? You deserve to feel worse for even thinking something that naïve._

So, of course, the void clawed at her again as she neared her home. The sinking darkness emerged, not like the voice, not triumphant or antagonizing, but punctual, like meeting for a regularly scheduled appointment. Were she not so exhausted by the grim ambush of her own dark thoughts, she'd have been astonished at how rapidly they'd returned to her.

The landmarks came into focus, familiar signs and ruins. Some people feel comfort when they come home. Eve felt a sinking in her stomach when she saw the street signs.

She entered the hallway leading into her apartment, her face hanging off of her head in a tired droop, her thoughts wrapped in knots. A stirring noise from inside her apartment made her freeze. A tiny jolt charged her body. Without thinking, she pressed her back into the concrete wall and held her breath. She lowered her head and focused her hearing, waiting for another sound. A voice spoke aloud, making every hair on her body rise up.

"I know you're out there. I'm not here to hurt anybody, I just want to talk. Minutemen patrol came through and I needed a place to duck away. I swear."

The voice sounded familiar. It took a few seconds to hit her.

 _Berkman. The ghoul who killed those raiders._

With caution she poked her head around the corner into her doorway. Sure enough, Mikhail Berkman stood there, hands raised at chest level, palms outstretched to show he wasn't armed. His clothes were the same as when they'd first met, worn military fatigues and his bullet hole ridden combat jacket. However, this time a gas mask dangled from his neck.

"I really am sorry to barge in like this. But I came here looking for you anyway. If I had to hide, this seemed as good a place as any," Berkman didn't move. He was testing the waters still.

Eveline felt most of her sadness wash away, replaced by suspicion, discomfort. "What are you doing here?" Her hand hovered near her waist, ready to go for her gun if she had to. She saw Berkman's eyes go to her hand, then to her face. He stood completely still, hands still raised for her to see.

"I told you. I was looking for you. I'd like to talk. That's all."

"How did you know where I live?" She continued to stare him down. She felt horribly uncomfortable, unsure of what this man's deal was. Was he a stalker, a rapist, a man too disturbed to know that you don't just follow someone home, let alone break in?

"Look, I'll tell you everything, but you have to listen. There's around five, maybe six Minutemen circling this neighborhood. You shoot me and they'll hear us, come running in within a few minutes. You don't want that. I don't want that. Now let's just sit down and talk, and I'll explain everything to you. Promise." He backed away as he spoke, lowering himself to the floor to sit down.

"I'll stand," Eve said, looking into his eyes. She crossed her arms, pulling her hand away from the drawing range of her pistol. "Go ahead. Why are you here?"

"Whew, thanks for hearing me out. I ain't exactly eager to get shot with the same pistol I gave you."

Eve looked down at the 10mm holstered at her waist. She'd forgotten that he was the one who instructed her to start carrying it.

"So where to start…" Berkman began. He got himself comfortable and stretched his legs out on the floor. A hand rubbed his jaw while another rested on his knee. "I've been tracking you for a while, I regret to say. I know nobody likes hearing they've been followed, but I can promise you it was for a good reason."

Eve gave him a disgusted stare, not caring to hide her anger. "How long?"

"Since we first saw you. In the Rot District."

"We?"

"Yes. Me and the rest of the crew. One of our prisoner's was let loose after interrogation. We usually just let 'em out into the district and let the ferals tear 'em apart. It ain't usually my style, a little on the brutal side, especially with the younger captives. I prefer a quick shot to the back of the head, but I don't lose any sleep when those gunner types die screaming, and it gives some of the recruits a little entertainment."

"Wait, when that gunner was running from those ferals…that sniper that shot at me…that was you?"

"At you? No, we hit what we were aiming for. Wasn't me neither, I forget who was on sniper duty that day. Anyway, we saw you step in, take out those ferals, then approach the guy. We couldn't let him escape. He knew who we were, seen most of our faces, plus Reggie went and tore the guys fingernails off during interrogation…you could imagine he would've been pretty eager for revenge if we'd let him go. Besides, we didn't know if he would have attacked you. Can't let one of our sisters die because some shit-stain gunner caught her by surprise when she was at the wrong place at the wrong time."

"So you're…" Eve spoke quietly, as though someone could be listening. It felt dangerous to say it out loud.

"Ghoul Liberation Front," Berkman finished for her. "Yup. Pretty famous member actually! Dulles even mentioned me by name in one of his recent on-air blatherings! I was surprised you didn't know, to be honest. I even gave you my real name. Suppose it was my way of testing you; seeing if you'd freak out or run off and offer a hint to the authorities for some caps. Thankfully, you didn't let me down."

"So why were you following me in the first place? Because I killed some of your ferals?"

Berkman chuckled softly. "Our ferals? We don't own those poor souls. They just happen to make good cover when we need to operate behind enemy lines. Feral ghouls step on landmines, get eaten my mongrels, and are torn apart by the wasteland on a regular basis. We don't lose too much sleep if some of them go. Death might even be better than that life. I'd hate to go on living if I ever went that way…anyway, nah, we thought it would be best to keep a tail on you to see where you stood. A ghoul woman on her own in the Commons, dropping ferals, making her way alone? You're a tough one, Eveline."

"So what is it you want from me then?"

"Well, at first I wasn't sure of what to make of you. I was tailing you, taking the rooftops, when you got ambushed by raiders. Part of me thought it best to leave you to it, chalk it all up to a waste of time if the raiders got you. But you did a good job fending them off. Quick thinking, ducked to cover, managed to hold back the tide when you were outnumbered. It was impressive, and well, I found myself rooting for you. Thought I'd give you a hand."

"And then I saved _your_ ass."

"Maybe," he smiled. "You did a good job making use of the situation, and you weren't going to leave a comrade behind. Those are good instincts."

Berkman rose to his feet slowly, making sure to show his hands. Eve didn't react quite as jumpy as before.

"I'll get to the point. We like you. You know how to handle yourself, and you're one of our own. We can help each other. I think you'd do a hell of a lot more good fighting with us than you would out here, waiting for the Minutemen to kick you out of your home. You told me you used to fight for them, and they turned their backs on you when you became like us. That means you know how to be a soldier, you know how to survive in the wasteland, and clearly your time out here has left you with a good grasp of how to maneuver the city. We could always use people like you. Most of our folks are displaced farmers who never wandered far from their settlements, never experienced military training. We do what we can, but we're peasants, not soldiers."

Berkman walked over to the concrete wall and peered out into the streets from the cracks. Eve was no longer watching him as carefully. Her eyes went to the floor as she struggled to absorb what he was offering her. He turned back to her and continued, "I can tell you that it's no more dangerous for you with us than it is out here on your own. And we can offer you something they were never able to give you. We can treat you like an equal, no matter what you look like. We can be a better family to you than they ever were."

It was too much to comprehend at once. She knew very little about the GLF, maybe some propaganda crossed her path now and then, but she knew better than to take it seriously. Now someone was standing before her, offering to make her a member.

Berkman read her thoughts seamlessly just by looking at her face. "You'll need some time to sort this out, I know. When you're ready to talk, come find us in the Rot District. Same place where we…uh…'first met.'"

He dusted his pants off and made his way for the door but stopped before he reached the exit. "Oh, before I forget, take this…" he removed the gasmask from around his neck and handed it to her. "Obviously we don't need these, but they do a pretty good job of hiding your face without looking too suspicious. Someone with a smooth voice like yours could probably make it go a long way. Oh, it's even got a little drinking straw!" Berkman reached into his coat and pulled out a short rubber tube with a fastening mechanism on one end. "Well, enjoy! I hope we get to see each other soon." He smiled, nodded, then walked out the door, floating with the breeze, leaving as gently and unnoticed as he'd entered, despite leaving a bombshell behind him.


	18. Chapter 18

At the CIT printing press Piper Wright was wearing her trademark red leather trench coat, her dark hair waving wildly beneath her 'press' hat as her large green eyes practically bulged from her skull with excitement. Her gloved hands went to every corner of the press as she paced around the machinery in wonder. She couldn't speak with the exception of a few scattered remarks of 'oh my god!' 'I can't believe it!' or 'how did you!?'

Sturgeon stood, arms crossed and face beaming brightly while he watched the young reporter become revitalized with the wonder he feared she'd lost. There was a weight gone and a sense of pride unlike he'd known for some time. Something other than shame and guilt prevailed within his thoughts. It had been so long since he'd felt something else, he'd forgotten it were possible.

His heart skipped when Piper hurled herself at him. She squeezed him tightly, her eyes tearing up. "Why did you do this?" she practically sobbed. "Thank you, Stu. Thank you so much." She buried her face into his neck for a moment, but quickly withdrew and tried to compose herself. Wiping away tears and sniffling, she let out a nervous laugh.

"If you'd have told me I'd ever have a chance to be a journalist again, I don't think I'd have believed you…" Her voice began with a sing-songy tone but by the end of her sentence was noticeably sentimental. "I guess I never thought something like this could be out here. The Boston Bugle had the only printing press I knew of, and the Gunner's scrapped that thing a long time ago."

Sturgeon thought for a moment, drawing his chin to his chest and wrinkling his forehead. "I…" he struggled to explain himself. The truth was, he'd been so busy trying to alleviate his conscience, he never quite figured out how to explain why he went to such great lengths to do this for her. "I liked Publick Occurrences…" he said with an affirming nod.

 _That's not enough…_

Scrambling for words he just blurted out what he knew he _could_ say. "I hated seeing you like you were, Piper. I know your paper meant a lot to you." He took a deep breath, he was actually beginning to feel a bit awkward about the whole thing. He knew they were barely friends, and it was probably weird that he went so far as to refurbish a 200-year-old hunk of junk just for her. But he wasn't ready to tell her _why_ it was so important to do it. It was more than an attempt to impress a crush, or a love for freedom of the press, or a desire to see his favorite paper back in circulation. It was a selfish decision. He wanted to feel better for everything he was complicit in, for the suffering he enabled by staying with the Minutemen.

"You've got a knack for this whole journalism thing—unlike anything else we've got out here. I'd be a doing a disservice if I didn't help you get back to doing what you do best." Sturgeon laughed softly at her reaction. The goofiest, most teeth exposing smile he'd ever seen was on her face. He was lying to her, of course, but it didn't seem to matter.

Piper threw herself at him again, and squeezed him tightly. She withdrew, arms still wrapped around his back and stared at him, her large teary eyes like wet lily pads floating in a clear pond. Sturgeon looked back, wondering what she was thinking. "I—" he opened his mouth to speak but before he could get a word out, he felt her lips pressed against his and her arms pulling him in tight. It felt like a million little feathers were being traced along his back, sending cold tingles through his body, raising his hairs. Calm, sedating warmth filled his chest and he felt his eyelids grow heavy as he melted from her affection. She withdrew slowly, her eyes slightly closed and leveled towards his lips when he suddenly returned her embrace, kissing her back.

There was something in his touch, in the way he threw everything in him behind his kiss, even without words she could tell that he was in desperate need of someone to hold onto. She let her feelings take her in the moment, pushing aside whatever implications were there, but it occurred to her that there was more here than what was being said. She decided, for better or worse, to give him the love he clearly needed, wanting to please him if only out of gratitude for what he'd done. Her hands found their way up his back and to his neck where her fingers ran over skin. She stopped when she felt his scar. A small gasp escaped her lips, feeling all of his pain personified with a single touch. She withdrew and went on tip-toes to press her forehead against his. Her eyes opened and stared upward into his own. She saw through everything, past every barrier and into his soul. There was a heaviness to him, she could always feel that, but behind his stare she could see just how much he was haunted, tired, burdened. Her other hand went to his cheek and she cupped his face. Tilting her head and blinking slowly, her eyes translated a message that he felt in his heart.

 _It's ok. I'm here. It's going to be ok._

The warmth he felt in his chest faded. His eyes grew sad and the grin disappeared from his face. At last, an offer was being made to alleviate the deep longing he felt, a chance to receive the comfort he desired so badly when he was agonizing over his guilt and shame. It was right there in front of him, in the shape of this bubbly, enthusiastic young woman.

And he realized it meant nothing.


	19. Chapter 19

**It's been awhile since I've updated. I've decided to start publishing longer chapters, so the flow of the story won't be broken as frequently. Thanks to those who followed, favorited, and left reviews!**

Back in the castle, uniformed soldiers lined up in the courtyard in rows of ten minutemen each, four feet apart, symmetrically spread out to each end of the stone walls that enwrapped the fortress. Well-dressed officials watched from along the elevated paths of the high wall, intently staring down at the grunts like scientists studying a petri dish though a microscope. Commander Marcos' hefty voice recited names from a clipboard, his words practically shaking the courtyard with each boom of his voice.

Of course, as though part of an insidious plot, Sturgeon's name was called.

"Thomas Sturgeon!"

His name read aloud, however expected, still felt like a jab to the chest. He pushed it aside, like he did so much else the past few weeks. Emotional torture can only last so long before one goes numb, detaching themselves from their feelings and ensuing their days with robotic dissociation.

He marched to the other end of the courtyard where the Urban Resurgence squads were being assembled for a march into the city. Some were visibly shaken, knowing a post in the city meant seeing combat. Not even the Brotherhood of Steel, with all their vertibirds, power armor, and high tech weaponry could tame the city. The Minutemen had numbers and knowledge of the landscape, but they were going into a known quagmire, and cynicism infected the ranks of Osha's soldiers, giving way to dread.

In the line of reassigned soldiers, Sturgeon saw Beli "Tora" Torriat, the dark-skinned woman with frizzy hair. She briefly glanced at him from several rows over then looked away. They'd chatted several times in recent days. She was excited about being shipped to the front lines, saying she wasn't interested in the leisurely, retired soldier lifestyle. She wanted to see combat. Sometimes recruits felt that way, but it didn't last once they'd actually been shot at. Stu had seen enough combat to know better now. There was nothing worthwhile in it, even for those with a death wish. There were days when his spiraling moods caught the best of him and he desired to be in circumstances that could bring his death, but the air of battle sent a surge of instinct through most; it forced the body to fight for survival, overriding any perverted sense of masochism felt before the bullets were flying overhead. He'd tried explaining to her that she was better off at the castle, but it didn't do much good. She was excited, determined even. Their conversations often derailed shortly afterwards, though Sturgeon didn't mind. She was good company; especially compared to the hardline bigots that surrounded him most days. At worst she just asked him questions he didn't like; his life pre-minutemen, what he did when off-duty, what his thoughts were on current affairs. It bothered him, but at least she wasn't too invasive about her questions when he clearly intended to brush her off. She spoke with the gentle brush strokes of a painter rather than with the fervor and intensity of an interrogator. It made him like her, but it also made him comfortable around her. Sometimes he had to be careful about divulging too much about his life outside the castle.

 _At least I'll have some good company in the shit._

Stu wondered how easy it would be to wander off from his post at the front lines. Would they need him day-in day-out seven days a week? He'd recently began a romantic affair with Piper Wright and while the whole thing was cavalier, some affection and sex was a pretty good thing to have in his life. Whatever thoughts he had about the whole thing, he didn't dwell. This was his life and he would just live it. All the options for escape were being laid out for him; a nice woman, a sense of purpose working for the paper, his friend Eveline, but he couldn't do it. Something kept him where he was and he hated himself for it, but he couldn't run from it. Sturgeon went cold and accepted his role as a pawn for someone else's struggle. He let someone else choose his life for him. Even if it made him miserable, he just couldn't let go.

He snapped to attention, set his eyes forward, and straightened his posture. His hands flattened out at his sides and pointed down to the earth. An unbearable itching screamed for relief under the skin around his neck, but he ignored it.

It wasn't long before the new paper was opened, a rebranded Publick Occurrences, far more scathing and provocative in its criticisms of the government of the Confederated Settlements. Volunteers of all backgrounds came forward when they caught wind of the new paper. They were former members of the synth liberationist group known as The Railroad (Railroad volunteers were particularly helpful in distribution, thanks in part to their experience smuggling escaped synths in secrecy,) the displaced peasants who couldn't keep up with the demand required by lords and the state, ghouls and ghoul allies, and even radical anti-authoritarians that despised the notion of Minutemen dominance. The diversity in their ranks provided a relief to those who felt they were in a minority of lonely discontents under the new order. Perhaps they were still a minority, but in the physical company of others they felt validated in their grievances.

The paper no longer adhered to any pretext of impartiality, and it made no effort to pretend that it did. From the perspective of its contributors, the mere fact that it had to publish in secrecy was enough to justify its role as opposition. Further, the crimes of the government were of such volume, and so unchecked, it would be a disservice not to take on the arduous task of being its sole critic with unapologetic antagonism.

Editorials levied ruthless critiques against the Minutemen's stance on civil liberties and minority rights. Ghoul couriers brought in first-hand accounts from deported ghouls pushed into the radioactive wasteland that was the Glowing Sea, for the first time offering a platform to the dispossessed and marginalized so long silenced by the powers that be. The Commonwealth could finally perceive things through the eyes of someone other than Nathaniel Dulles.

Every other day, Eveline checked on the CIT operation to see how things were coming along. She was shocked at the rate Piper managed to develop a smooth functioning media cooperative despite being forced underground. Journalists covered beats in secret, finding ways to cover the wasteland without exposing themselves too much to the light. The runners who dropped the papers off had so far gone without any casualties or serious setbacks. Circulation was slowly growing, thanks in part to a dedicated team of volunteers, more out of a sense of duty and passion than anything else, as any profits to speak of was more or less diverted to maintaining supplies and materials for publishing.

Eve popped into the building to look around and saw the press room in chaos, folks wildly running back and forth, people carrying stacks of papers in a hurry, shouting matches going from across the halls, and reporters typing away at their terminals at feverous speeds. Piper saw her enter through her office window and quickly spun out of her chair and opened the door to usher her into the office like a rescue vertibird landing in the middle of battle.

"Don't think too much of it, it's always like this now," Piper remarked, shutting the door behind Eve and motioning for her to sit down on the salvaged red leather couch across from her desk. Presumably the property of a pre-war professor, and still in relatively sturdy condition, the desk was seated with a computer chair and a glowing terminal where Piper spent late nights writing, editing, and then editing some more.

Piper smiled her bright, authentic smile as she leaned back, palms flat, propping herself up against the front of her desk.

"What brings you here, change your mind about this whole 'I'm no reporter' thing?" She reached across her anarchic workspace, a wasteland of empty gumdrop boxes and scattered notes, for an opened nuka-cola. Eve had come to notice how much sugar this woman consumed and was consistently surprised by how thin she was despite the all junk food diet.

"No, it's not that," Eve paused and thought for a minute. "I don't really have an answer for you. I just enjoy seeing this place, all these people working collectively; with one purpose."

Eve felt slightly uncomfortable. Piper and her weren't too acquainted so she wasn't one hundred percent sure how to act around her. She caught herself speaking with her chin in her chest or her hair over her face; subconscious attempts to hide her skin from the reporter. It was a habit she'd tried to break, but she couldn't help it around people she wasn't quite used to.

"It is a sight, huh? I still can't thank you and Stu enough for doing this for me—for the Commonwealth! The public finally has a newspaper that does something other than spew Dulles' 'blood and honor' crap all day."

Piper dug under her desk for the cooler she kept by her feet while working. Withdrawing another nuka-cola, she offered it to Eve, who declined. She continued, "So if I haven't thanked you, thank you. Thank you so much. Have I thanked you? I'm not sure I have," Piper laughed nervously.

Eve smiled a little. "Yes, Piper, every time I see you. It's no problem, I barely did anything anyway. It was mostly Sturgeon's idea. He found the place, convinced me to get it working with him, all that."

The reporter's smile faded and she looked at the floor, taking a deep breath. "I've been meaning to ask you about that actually…"

 _Uh-oh._ Eve suddenly felt nervous. She knew this would happen eventually. It wouldn't be easy lying to someone who digs up the truth for a living. She was honestly amazed Sturgeon had kept things a secret this long already.

Piper studied Eve's reaction carefully. Eve fought the urge to squirm in her seat; she had the distinct impression Piper could see though her but wasn't letting her know.

"Do you know where he goes most of the week? I see him all the time once the weekend starts to roll by, but otherwise…he's a ghost; impossible to find or get a hold of."

Eve wasn't used to lying to someone's face, and Piper seemed the worst person to practice on. She did her best anyway.

"He likes his alone time for scavenging. It's safer to wander outside of the city and check the houses out in the suburbs than it is around here, you know, what with all the raiders."

 _Well, I'm not completely lying._

The reporter sighed and walked back around her desk. "I was just curious. Can't help it, it's in my nature."

There was something about how Piper spoke that made Eveline feel guilty. She had a way of firing her words out like a hose that was just unknotted; a burst of energy that dies down gradually. It was like she was constantly psyching herself up to speak, then slowly running out of steam and becoming heavy.

Piper looked back up at her, pushing a lock of hair over her shoulder. "This might sound kind of out there, but do you..."

 _Shit shit shit._ Eve started to panic internally.

"Do you think Sturgeon is a member of the GLF?"

Eve blinked.

Piper stared intently at Eveline's face and quickly tried to soften the impact of her question. "Look, maybe you're not comfortable telling me what you know, but I can tell you I'm obviously not going to go running to the Minutemen. I'm not exactly their favorite person," Piper tried to reason with Eve, mistaking her shock for apprehensiveness.

"The GLF? You think Sturgeon is…"

"I mean, he's always running off during the days, he knows his way around the city, he seems to know how to carry a gun, and I mean, he's always been close to you, Eve. He must have a lot of grievances with this Dulles guy and all of his anti-ghoul bullshit."

Piper seemed almost positive she had a thread, and she wouldn't let it go. "I'm not afraid of them like all these other dopes in the Commonwealth. I have connections in the Glowing Sea, and I hear about the good they do: guarding refugees from monsters, creating homes and irrigation systems for resettled ghouls, defending ghouls from harassment and attacks by Minutemen or meathead paramilitary types emboldened by the bigots in power. I may have a bone or two to pick with them, but they do good work. I wouldn't hold anything against Sturgeon if that was his secret. I wouldn't even tell anyone!"

"They do all that?" Eve asked.

"The GLF? Yeah. Plus there are a few posts around the city where they recruit from Goodneighbor, offer some basic services to ghoul residents like water, food, clothes, that sort of thing. Mostly things to help out refugees who lost everything after deportation. We've had a few sit downs with commanders before, but we're holding back on publishing anything. It'd be too high profile to publish an interview with a GLF member right now. We'd like to establish ourselves some more first."

"I thought the GLF were an armed group? A militia?"

"They are, I mean how can you not be an armed organization in the Commonwealth? But, no, they're definitely not non-violent or anything. I'm not sure they've had any significant run-ins with the Minutemen though. The state media blamed them for the assassination of two former council members, the people in Dulles' inner-circle, but honestly…I'm not sure I buy that. There was never an investigation into any of those murders, and the GLF people we spoke to denied any involvement. Not sure why they'd carry out an attack if they were going to deny it. You'd think they'd use it as an opportunity to threaten the Minutemen from expanding further into the city. All it does is help Dulles' consolidate more power and brew more hysteria. There's even word that Leon Malchenko, the most recent victim, was on the run before he was taken out. Maybe he saw the writing on the wall…"

"What do you mean 'saw the writing on the wall?'" Eve asked, no longer concerned with Sturgeon.

Piper answered hesitantly, "I don't want to sound like I'm just throwing out conspiracies…but maybe Nathaniel Dulles is doing a secret purge of his cabinet; strengthening his position within his government and building a pre-text for his war. I'm not sure you've noticed, but our runners are seeing a lot more troops around the city…this place isn't a playground. A lot of kids are going to die out here. It's going to be hard to keep an operation like this popular without a significant amount of fear and anger to keep the public from crying out when their kids come home with holes in them. This whole _Urban Resurgence_ thing Dulles is talking about is going to get bloody."

"So what will the GLF do? If the Minutemen do start occupying the city, they're going to need to defend their operation. And what about Goodneighbor?"

Piper sighed. She brushed some empty boxes of candy aside and perched herself up on her desk, crossing her arms. "I don't know, but it's clear the Minutemen want a war. If they're already accusing the GLF of killing their leaders, there's not really much reason for them not to open fire on patrols besides being outnumbered. The GLF is going to end up fighting a guerrilla campaign against the Minutemen eventually, it's inevitable. I just don't know where things go from there. As for Goodneighbor, the Minutemen will have their hands full with raiders, super mutants, ferals, and eventually the GLF. I don't know how they'll handle Goodneighbor. If there campaign is somewhat successful, I suspect they'll go for annexation."

Eve rubbed her forehead and exhaled deeply. It seemed there was nowhere she could go now where she didn't have to worry about the Minutemen. "What about the refugees living in Goodneighbor? The ghouls, synths?"

Piper frowned and her eyes darkened. "They'll be forced out, I'm sure. Probably the only place left for them is the glowing sea. That will work for the ghouls, but it will be dangerous just getting there, let alone living there among all the mutated creatures. But even worse, I have no idea if the last generation of synths can handle radiation like the robotic ones can…I really don't know what will happen to them. Maybe the Railroad will reorganize and work something out, but I just…"

The room grew quiet. Eve looked back out at the pressroom and all the people humming about inside. They were doing their part, it was time for her to do hers.


End file.
